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THE CHRISTMAS GUEST. 


a- 




COLLECTION OE STORIES. 

BY 

IRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH; 

•I / 

AND HER SISTER, 

MRS. FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


“ And well onr Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year its course had rolled, 

And brought blithe Christmas back again, 

With all his hospitable train. 

Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honor to the holy night ; 

On Christmas eve the bells were rung; 

On Christmas eve the hymns were sung ; 

Forth to the wood the merry men go, 

To gather in the mistletoe. 

All hailed, in uncontrolled delight, 

And general voice, the happy night, 

That to the cottage, as to the. crown, 

Brought tidings of salvation down.” — W alter Scott. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 

* T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the 
Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 




MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS. 

Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume. 

V THE FAMILY DOOM ; OR, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS, • 
ha THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “ The Family Doom.” 

'4 THE CHRISTMAS GUEST. 

.. THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS. . 
r THE THREE BEAUTIES. 

THE WIFE’S VICTORY. 

THE DESERTED WIFE. 

THE CHANGED BRIDES. 

' THE BRIDE’S FATE. SEQUEL TO CHANGED BRIDES. 

* THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 

A THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY, 
x THE FORTUNE SEEKER. 

THE LOST HEIRESS. 

U RETRIBUTION. 

THE BRIDAL EVE. 

THE TWO SISTERS. 

FAIR PLAY; OR, THE TEST OF THE LONE ISLE. 

HOW HE WON HER. A SEQUEL TO FAIR PLAY. 
THE FATAL MARRIAGE. 

THE HANUTED HOMESTEAD. 

X THE MOTHER IN-LAW. 

X LOVE’S LABOR WON. 

THE MISSING BRIDE. 

LADY OF THE ISLE. 

FALLEN PRIDE; OR, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 
INDIA; OR, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. 

VIVIA; OR, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. 

• THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. 

y THE W ID 0 W’ S SON. 
y ALLWORTH ABBEY. 

Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover. 

t M 


Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or 
all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, post- 
age pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


TO 


THE MEMORY 

OP 

OUR DEAR MOTHER, 


THIS WORK 

IS RESPECTFULLY 
AND 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBE U, 
BY HER DAUGHTERS, 



THE AUTHORS. 

























































































































■ v 































CONTENTS 


» 


v THE CRIME AND THE CURSE 

Chapter. 

I. — A TALE TOLD BY NIGHT 

II. — A DARK RESOLVE 

III. — A REVELATION AND A RESOLUTION 

IV. — THE DEED AND THE DOOM 

V. — HOW THE CURSE WORKED 

WAS IT A GHOST? 

* “MERCY.” 

* ESTELLE’S REVENGE 

RETALIATION 

OUR CAPRICIOUS PET 

v ONLY A COMMA 

v THE WARNING.' 

SAVED BY LOVE 

THE BRIDE’S SECRET 

' AUNT HENRIETTA’S MISTAKE 

FALSE AND TRUE LOVE 

/"IN THE HOSPITAL ... 

EARNEST AND TRUE ; 

WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL 

TWO MEMORABLE THANKSGIVING DAYS... 
THE TREACHEROUS WIND 


Tage 

23 

29 

34 

40 

52 

63 / > 
81 

94 3 

107 % 
119 7 

132/ 7 
144 / / 
155 ! J> 
168 

181 9 
189 
201 
217 
230 
242 
253 


( 19 ) 


20 


CONTENTS 


Page 

STEALING THE WRONG CHILD..., 261 

ONLY A FLIRTATION 272 

VTHE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL 283 

LOVE UNTO DEATH 292 

THE HUSBAND'S MISTAKE 302 

AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO 314 

THE THREE BELLES 323 

DAYS OF TRIAL 331 




jt 


< 


THE CHIME AND THE CUKSE. 

A LEGEND OF ST. MARY’S. 

BY EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks out. 

The element of water moistens the earth. 

But blood flies upward and bedews the Heavens. — Webster. 
A curse will follow them like the black plague, 

Tracking thy footsteps ever, day and night, 

Morning and eve, summer and winter — ever 1 — Pboctob. 


. CHAPTER I. 

A TALE TOLD BY NIGHT. 

Listen, gentle stranger, now — 

Awful hands have marked thy brow. — A non. 

I must take you some way back both in time and space 
— even to the old country and to the days of Charles the 
Second, for so far off dates the legend. 

One of the most beautiful among the celebrated beauties 
of the sinful court of that (i Merry Monarch ” was the 
lovely Lady Berenice Beauchamp. She was the only child 
of Lord Beauchamp, of Beauchamp, in .Blankshire. 

But the estate was a male feoff and, on the death of the 
lord, would descend to his nephew, Bertram Beauchamp, 
the son of his younger brother. 

And thus the lovely Lady Berenice was likely to be 
left with only such scant dower as her father might be able 
to save out of his income from his rent-roll, and as he was 
a fast living, fox-hunting, horse-racing old lord,' this was 
but too likely to be very limited. 


( 23 ) 


24 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


Under these circumstances, it seemed desirable, if not 
even absolutely necessary, that the Lady Berenice should 
contract a wealthy alliance. 

With this view, Lord Beauchamp took his daughter up 
to London, and presented her at court ; where her marvel- 
lous beauty made such -a deep impression upon the suscep- 
tible fancy of the fickle monarch that all the great court 
ladies grew green with envy. 

It was said that Nell Gwyn wept, and the Duchess of 
Cleveland swore ; but the injured Queen Catherine of Bra- 
ganza, who had nothing left to lose, laughed at the discom- 
fiture of her insolent rivals, and rather smiled upon the 
lovely young aspirant for court favor. 

But neither the tears of one favorite, nor the oaths of 
the other produced the slightest effect upon the selfish and 
obstinate monarch. In defiance of them, Lady Berenice 
was appointed maid of honor to Queen Catherine, as the 
usual first step in promotion to that bad eminence sighed 
for by all the unprincipled beauties of that most unprinci- 
pled court, and attained, it must be admitted, by too many 
of them. 

But in a position where neither principles nor policy 
could have saved her, since she seems to have possessed not 
the one nor the other, pride and passion were her preserv- 
ers ; for the Lady Berenice was very proud and very im- 
passioned ; and very soon, also, she was in love — and not 
with the be-wigged and bloated monarch or his state. 

Among the officers of the queen’s household was a 
young gentleman of noble family, but of impoverished for- 
tunes. His name was Yeyne Vandeliere. 

Sir Yeyne — like every other man about the court, from 
the king down to the king’s humblest guardsman — fell in 
love with the beautiful Lady Berenice, and his passion was 
returned. Those were not the days and that was not the 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


25 


school of duty and self-denial. The loveliest lady and the 
handsomest cavalier of that gay court were enamored of 
each other ; they were secretly engaged to be married ; 
some said they realty were married ; others that they only 
ought to have been. 

However that was, their loves nyjt the strongest sort of 
opposition, not only from the lady’s father who bitterly dis- 
approved of her favored suitor, and whose darling wish it 
was to see his daughter wedded to some powerful nobleman 
or wealthy gentleman, and would not therefore tolerate the 
idea of her becoming the wife of the handsome, but needy, 
young adventurer, — but, also, from the enamored and jeal- 
ous monarch who, being passionately in love with the 
beauty himself and anxious to elevate her to all the powers 
and privileges of that bad “ eminence ” spoken of before, 
could not endure the existence of a rival. 

Opposition from one alone the lady might have with- 
stood ; but with the power of the king arrayed against her ^ 
on the one side, and the authority of her father on the % 
other, what could even Berenice Beauchamp do ? 

Being then but eighteen years age, she could do noth- 
ing but remonstrate, and finding that of no avail, set her 
little teeth and bide her time. 

It came. And Berenice Beauchamp at twenty-eight, 
was another sort of woman, as you shall presently hear. 

About this time Philip Calvert, brother of the then late 
Lord Proprietary of Maryland, was fitting out an expedi- 
tion to go and settle the affairs of that province, which liau. 
been much disturbed by the revolution in England, and 
which was not quite set in order by the restoration. 

Many of the impoverished members of tlfiS* Catholic nobil- 
ity and gentry were preparing to go out with him, and seek 
their fortunes in the New World. 

The king, anxious to get rid of his young and handsome 


26 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


rival, first dismissed Sir Veyne from his office in the queen’s 
household, and then gave him an appointment of great 
honor and emolument in the new administration of the 
government in Maryland. 

So Veyne Yandeliere sailed with Philip Calvert and his 
part3^, and in due course became a great naval commander 
in the little colony. 

But the crafty king gained nothing by his mot/on. The 
haughty and vindictive beauty never forgave her sovereign 
for separating her from her lover. And she never appre- 
ciated the honor of the royal notice — or rather more proba- 
bly she estimated it at its true worth. 

But it injured her matrimonial prospects very considera- 
bly for a long period of time. The lovely lady Berenico 
Beauchamp hung on hand. Pew courtiers were willing to 
risk their monarch’s displeasure by suing for the hand of a 
beauty upon whom he had cast his royal glance. 

At length in despair her father took her home to Blank- 
shire, where in the course of a few months, he married her 
to the Earl of Henniker, an ancient peer of incredible 
wealth, honors, and decrepitude ! And then — having at- 
tained the object of his whole life’s scheming, Lord Beau- 
champ died, and his title and estates passed to his nephew. 

Lady Henniker, dragging her decrepit but doting old 
husband after her, went back to court, where she was soon 
appointed lady in waiting upon the queen, and where her 
beauty, splendor and extravagance, made her more notorious 
and more powerful than she had been before. 

But in the midst of all this royal magnificence, her poor 
old lord died suddenly, and some said not fairly, and his 
titles and estates also went to a distant relative, who was 
his next male heir. 

Whether the old man died the death of nature, which 
was extremely probable, considering his age and infirmities, 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


27 


or the death of domestic treachery, which was also not un- 
likely, considering the after conduct of his lady, is now as 
impossible to tell, as whether Queen Mary Stuart really did 
blow up Henry, Lord Darnley, or not. 

Be that as it may, the beautiful young widow, turning 
all her rich dowry of land into ready money, and taking 
with her her young daughter, the only offspring of her 
mercenary marriage, embarked on board the first outward- 
bound ship for the province of Maryland, and went out to 
join her lover. 

• She had not seen nor heard from him for ten ye^irs ; but 
in all the chances and changes of those years, she had not 
forgotten him, or ceased to love him. With all her well- 
known faults, she had that fidelity j with all her imputed 
crimes, she had that constancy. 

And down to this late day, all her daughters resemble 
her in the possession of that one rare gift. They love but 
once, and they love forever. 

But to get back to her story. In due time, she landed 
at St. Mary’s. She became a guest of the Lord Proprie- 
tary, until she could settle herself. But — she neither saw 
nor heard anything of her lover. She did not even hear 
whether he were married or single, living or dead, until 

• desperate with anxiety she put the direct question. 

Then to her consternation she learned that he had gone 
on an expedition against the pirates that infested the 
Chesapeake, and the neighboring waters, but to her conso- 
lation that he was still unmarried. While waiting in great 
anxiety for the return of her lover, she having received a 
grant of that large tract of land comprising the peninsular 
that to this day bears her name, left her little daughter in 
the care of the Lord Proprietary’s lady, and went to survey 
her manor. 

She found an unbroken forest, bounded on both sides by 


28 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


water; otherwise, a large, wooded point of land extending 
far out into the bay, with a creek running up on one side 
of it. 

She named the peninsular Henniker’s Point, and the in- 
let Henniker’s Creek. And with the vast means she had 
at command she brought workmen and building materials 
from all the settlements far and near wherever they could 
be found, employing some half dozen coasting vessels in the 
business, and she cleared a portion of her manor, laid out 
handsome grounds, planted orchards, vineyards and gar- 
dens, and erected the most magnificent house in the colony 
— all for the sake of her absent lover. 

She had commenced her improvements very early in the 
spring. It was the work of many months, even for the 
strong force of laborers her large means and extravagant 
wages had brought together. 

Thus it was late in the autumn before her fine house 
was finished, and furnished and made habitable. On the 
first of December of that year, she moved into it. About 
the middle of the same month, Captain Sir Yeyne Vande- 
liere returned into port, having captured a pirate ship, and 
brought in several pi^soners and a large amount of booty. 
A courier from the Lord Proprietary brought her this news. 

She wrote to her lover as to an old friend ; told him of 
her determination to live a lady of the manor in the new 
province, and described to him the beautiful home she had 
made, and ended by inviting him to come down and see it, 
and spend Christmas with her. 

This letter she sent by a special messenger mounted on a 
stout horse ; for you must remember that there were no reg- 
ularly organized post-offices and mail routes here at that 
early date. In four or five days her messenger returned 
with her lover’s answer. 

He wrote in a friendly and affectionate, rather than in an 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


29 


ardent and enthusiastic spirit. He expressed great pleasure 
at the prospect of her residence in the colony ; he thanked 
her for her kindness in inviting him to her house ; he told 
her that he knew the neighborhood well, having had much 
dealings with a certain friendly tribe of Indians, the Poco- 
mocoes, whose village lay some little distance above her 
manor on the coast, and that he should gladly accept her 
invitation. 


CHAPTER II. 

A DARK RESOLVE. 

There where I had garnered up my heart; 

Where either I must live or bear no life ; 

The fountain from which all my current runs, ' 

Or else dries up! — To be discarded thence ! — Shakespeare. 

Vengeance to G-od alone belongs. 

But when I think on all my wrongs 
My blood is liquid then ! — Scott. 

Sumptuous you may imagine, were the preparations made 
by the lady of the manor to receive the long lost lover of 
her youth. Some curious old family accounts are still ex- 
tant to give us some ideas of the costliness of the entertain- 
ment. 

Her butler went in person to St. Mary’s City to purchase 
foreign sweetmeats, fruits, nuts, wines and other exotic del- 
icacies that had just been brought in by a ship from the old 
world. And at the end of a fortnight, he returned with a 
wagon load of the rarest table luxuries. 

The forest furnished birds and venison, and the sea, fish 
and oysters. And the well-stocked farm-yard, and dairy, 
provided every thing else. 

And now, all things being in readiness, the lady waited 
very impatiently for her lover. 


30 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


He came on Christmas Eve. We may fancy how she, 
who bhd loved so long and so ardently, through every vicis- 
situde of fortune, who had abandoned friends and country 
and civilization, for his sake, who had braved the perils of a 
long and most perilous voyage, only to join him, the lover 
of her girlhood, whom she had not seen for ten long weary 
years — we may fancy I say, how she received him — with 
what joy, what agitation, even with what incoherency of 
thought and speech and action ! 

He, on his part, as the story goes, was calm and cold and 
courteous. He thanked her again for her kindness in ask- 
ing him to her house, expressed the pleasure he felt in see- 
ing her; and inquired after old friends that they had known 
in the mother country. 

The lad}' was disappointed, and wounded at his want of 
enthusiasm on this occasion, so full of emotion to her ; but 
she ascribed his manner to a little lingering jealousy, and 
resentment of her own marriage. And she thought soon to 
set him right by an explanation of the whole affair. 

They supped alone together, and spent the evening in 
talking of the old days at court ; but they talked as long 
severed acquaintances, and not as re-united lovers. The lady 
was more and more disappointed and wounded. 

At length she spoke of her marriage with the old earl, 
telling him how she was forced into It ; how she had given 
her hand only, and not her heart to the aged valetudinarian ; 
how her heart had never changed, and how, as soon as she 
was free, she had not waited for her years of mourning to 
expire before she had sold everything, and come out in search 
of her early love. 

In reply, he begged that she would not think it neces- 
sary to explain or apologize for that really prudent marriage 
which she had a perfect right to contract. It was well and 
wisely formed, he said ; and he commended the discretion 
with which she had acted in the whole affair. 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


31 


Still wounded and disappointed, the lady said no nqore, 
but soon after rang for the wax tapers, and telling her cool 
lover that the servant would show him his room when ho 
should feel disposed to retire, hade him good night, and went 
away to her own chamber. But it is reported that, instead 
of going to bed, she paced the floor through the whole night, 
for that her confidential maid heard her footsteps and her 
sighs. 

The next day was Christmas-day, and by all accounts a 
duller one for them was never passed. There was no other 
company in the house, and even the little Lady Berenice, a 
maiden of some six or seven summers, was banished from 
the drawing-room and dining-room, lest her appearance, as 
the child of Lady Henniker’s mercenary marriage, might 
awaken unpleasant reminiscences in the mind of that lady f s 
once discarded lover. 

The two dined alone together, waited on only by the old 
butler. They talked of the opening prospects of the prov- 
ince, under the new order of things ; of the state of the old 
country— petticoat governed, through the passions of the 
weak and unprincipled king; of the rise and fall of state 
ministers or of royal favorites ; of the court gossip about tl^e 
declining star of that arrogant and violent Duchess of 
Cleveland, and the ascending sun of the beautiful French 
maid of honor, Louise de Queronalle. 

They talked in short of anything and everything but their 
own affairs, of anybody and everybody but themselves. Sir 
Veyne sedulously avoided personal subjects and kept to 
general topics. To her mortification and sorrow Lady Hen- 
niker soon perceived that this was done on purpose. So at 
length rising from the table, with a grave courtesy, she beg- 
ged him to enjoy himself, and left him to his wine. 

The story goes that she returned to the drawing-room, 
and standing before the great pier glass that filled up the 


32 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

space in the wall between the two front windows, she turned 
the two side lights full upon it, and gazing at the reflection 
of her own magnificent person, took an inventory of her own 
beauty. It is said that she was heard to murmur : 

“I am handsomer now than I was then — much hand- 
somer. My form is fuller, my complexion richer, my eyes 
larger and more brilliant, my hair darker and more glossy ; 
and my heart, how much more ardent. I am young too. 
Only twenty-eight. Women much older than I am have 
governed the nations through their beauty. Cleopatra was 
thirty-eight when Marc Anthony lost for her the world. 
Anne Boleyn was over thirty when King Henry sacrificed 
his conjugal and religious faith to her. Jane Seymour was 
no younger when she supplanted Queen Anne. And Mad- 
ame de Maintenon was past forty when she fascinated and 
married the most fastidious monarch in the world. And I, 
at twenty-eight, with my beauty unimpaired, and even 
much improved — if I cannot wfin hack my old love — the 
only man I care for, or ever did care for, or will care for in 
this world — aye, if I cannot win him back ! — if I cannot 
win him back ! I will know the woman why ! For the rea- 
son will be a woman. And she had better keep out of my 
way.” v 

This is what is reported to have been muttered, at inter- 
vals, in broken phrases by the countess as she gazed upon 
her image in the glass, or paced up and down her drawing- 
room floor ; heedless or unconscious of the presence of her 
servants, passing in and out to draw the curtains, trim the 
candles, or replenish the fire. 

But she was much too impatient and exacting to leave 
her guest long to the enjoyment of his own compan}'. 
Catching sight at length of the old butler who had entered 
the room upon some pretext, she told him to serve coffee 
there, and then to go and let Sir Veyne know that it was 
waiting. 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


33 


The old man did his errand, and the guest came at the 
lady’s bidding. He was cheerful, courteous, and conversa- 
ble as before ; but he still persistently avoided the most 
distant approach to love-making, to sentiment of any sort, 
or to the slightest reminiscences of the past. And this 
second evening of his visit closed on the countess, leaving 
her more miserable than before. 

“ There is a woman in it ! ” she is reported to have mut- 
tered to herself as she retired to her sleepless bed — “ there is 
a woman in it ; but it shall go hard if I do not win him 
away from her ! Hard ! yes hard with me, but infinitely 
harder with her ! hard enough to crush her — to crush her 
— to grind her out of existence ! ” 

So with a face livid with passion, her fists clenched, and 
her teeth grating together as she would have ground the 
flesh of the imaginary victim between them, the evil woman 
spoke of her unknown rival. 

“ For he is mine ! ” she hissed, “ mine by an older right ! 
and mine be shall continue, in spite of men, women, and 
devils ! For 1 old coals are soon kindled,’ and, old love soon 
revived.” 

The lady was right ; “old coals are soon kindled;” but 
if the coals have burned to ashes, no art on earth can ever 
make them fire again. It was so with Lady Henniker’s lost 
lover. The coals of his love for her had burned to ashes, 
and no art of hers could rekindle them. 


2 


34 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


CHAPTER III. 

A REVELATION AND A RESOLUTION. 

Between the acting of a dreadful thing 
And the first motion, all the interim is 
Like a phantasma or a hideous dream. — Shakespeare. 

Sir Veyne remained with Lady Henniker fbrsix weeks. 
Probably he would not have staid so long, had she not soon 
changed her tactics. She let his bug-bear, the recollection 
of their earlier relations, pass out of sight. She avoided 
everything like a desire to recall them. She brought down 
her daughter, the little Lady Berenice, and presented her to 
Sir Veyne, saying, as she did so, that she lived now only 
for that dear child’s sake. And she assumed towards him a 
gay, frank, and friendly demeanor well calculated to put him 
off his guard. 

Without seeming, to do so, she tried to win him by her 
own peerless attractions, by her extreme beauty, enhanced 
by the most exquisite taste in dress, her ineffable grace per- 
fected by cultivation, her assumed amiability, her elegant 
accomplishments, her brilliant conversational powers, her 
excellent judgment, her sparkling wit. ^ 

She seemed to succeed in charming him to the spot. At 
all events, at her often repeated invitation, he staid on and 
on. Week followed week and still he staid. It would seem 
likely to have been a dull time, but that the winter was an 
exceedingly mild one ; the river and the bay remained open, 
and the guest spent much of his time in fishing and in field 
sports. 

He would frequently be absent all day ; sometimes all 
night also, and on such occasions he would tell her that he 
had been beguiled into following the game for a long dis- 
tance, and being overtaken by darkness had sought shelter 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


35 


in some friendly Indian’s wigwam, or pioneer hunter’s cabin. 
This was the account he would give his hostess, and she 
would be satisfied with it. 

But all the out-door servants knew — what they dared not 
breathe to their mistress — that these fishing and hunting 
expeditions almost always ended at an Indian village, some 
ten miles up the coast, where the remnant of the warlike 
but friendly tribe of Pocomocoes still gathered around their 
council fires. 

The time drew near for Sir Veyne’s departure. So well 
had the Lady Henniker controlled herself and acted her 
part, that she had completely deceived her quandam lover 
in respect to her sentiments ; he believed her to be a kind 
friend who wished him well ; but wished to be nothing 
nearer to him ; and regarding her in this agreeable light, 
and having besides a confidence to repose in her and a favor 
to ask of her, his manner warmed to the lady very much. 

This naturally in its turn deceived her. It led her on to 
believe that at last her love, her constancy, and her endeav- 
ors to please him, were about to be rewarded with his 
hand. 

So she was not very much surprised when one morning, 
a few days before his intended departure, Sir Yeyne asked 
her for a private interview — an almost needless request, for 
all their interviews were necessarily private since there 
were no other persons in the house except the little Lady 
Berenice and the servants, and these were seldom in the 
way. On this occasion, ho mr, the child happened to be 
present. 

So the lady sent the e girl out of the room and then 
signed to her guest to approach and sit near her. Sir 
Veyne gladly obeyed. And then and there, while the 
lady’s passionate heart was throbbing fast with love and 
joy, and eagerly expecting the fruition of ten weary years’ 


86 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


hope deferred — then and there he told her a tale likely to 
turn all her love to loathing, her joy to anguish, and her 
hope to the darkest despair. 

He told her that he had a wife and child in that imme- 
diate neighborhood — an unacknowledged wife and child, 
•whom he implored her , as his good friend, to befriend and 
cherish, until such times as he could publicly present her at 
the Provincial Court. 

The countess must have been a woman of unequaled 
presence of mind, self-control and fortitude. She uttered 
no cry of agony, though the shaft had sped through her 
heart. She expressed no surprise, though she was nearly 
overwhelmed with astonishment. She simply moved her 
chair a little, so as to bring her back against the lighted 
window, and throw her face into deep shadow, and then 
in a sweet, cool, calm voice she begged him to go on. 

When she had first invited him to come down to spend 
Christmas at her house, and he had accepted her invitation, 
he had told her that he was well acquainted with the 
neighborhood of her manor. He reminded her of the cir- 
cumstance now ; and she said that she remembered it. 
Then he proceeded to explain. 

He told her that some eighteen months before, he had 
come down on a hunting expedition with some friends from 
St. Mary’s City. That in a single handed encounter with 
a stag at bay, he had been severely wounded, and that his 
companions had carried him to the Indian village of Poco- 
moco, and left him to be taken care of by the skillful medi- 
cine men of the tribe. 

His wounds confined him to his pallet of skins in the 
wigwam of the chief for several weeks, during which time 
he was kindly treated by all the tribe, and most tenderly 
nursed by the beautiful child of his host. 

(i The old story,” here put in the countess, not bitterly or 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 37 


ironically as it seemed, for she spoke in the same sweet, 
cool, calm tone ; and he could not see the expression of her 
face, which she carefully kept concealed in the deep shadow. 
“ The old story.” 

“ Yes, my lady, the old story, with a variation, however, 
that I hope will meet your approval,” Sir Yeyne is said to 
have answered, and then he proceeded. 

He told her how this maiden, whose pretty Indian name 
meant in our language the Shining Star, was as lovely, as 
graceful, and as good and gifted as was the princess Po- 
cohontas when she won the heart of the gallant young En- 
glish officer, Captain Rolfe. He said he soon learned to 
love her, and before he left the Indian village he married 
the Indian maiden according to the simple rites of her 
tribe, 

“ And by no other ? ” slowly and distinctly inquired Lady 
Henniker. 

“By no other rites,” frankly answered the narrator. 

“ Then it was no marriage at all,” observed the lady ; and 
the slightest possible tone of relief made itself manifest in 
her voice. 

“ It was a marriage as holy, as sacred, and as binding, as 
if the Archbishop of Canterbury had issued the license in 
his own band, and read the ritual in his own voice. More 
binding on mjr heart and conscience it could not possibly 
be,” replied the loyal lover. 

“ Proceed,” replied the lady sweetly. 

And Sir Veyne went on to relate that when he had taken 
a temporary leave of his bride he hurried to St. Mary’s City 
where his professional duties awaited him ; that he was im- 
mediately sent on an expedition against the buccaneers of 
the bay, which kept him at sea for manj T months, that soon 
after his victorious return he received Lady Henniker’s in- 
vitation to pass Christmas at Henniker House, and, leaving 


38 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

all the lionizing f§tes offered him at St. Mary’s City, he 
had accepted her proffered hospitality and come down.’ 

“ Pour cause put in the lady. 

“ Yes madam, pour cause” admitted the gentleman, 
with a smile. 

And then he confessed that in addition to his wish to see 
his old friend, another reason of his coming down the coun- 
try was his ardent desire to visit his young Indian wife. 
Under cover of a fishing excursion, he said, he went to the 
Indian village to see her. She met him in joyful surprise, 
and placed in his arms a beautiful boy, some few weeks 
old then. 

u Mongrel brat ! ” burst, in lowly-muttered thunder 
from the lady’s lips. 

“ Madam ? ” inquired the gentleman. 

“ Conjugal , that ! ” replied the lady. 

“ Oh, yes — I misunderstood you — yes, it was — very much 
so ! ” laughed the gentleman. 

“And now, what do you wish me to do in this affair?” 
inquired the countess. 

“ Do ? — A very great favor that I have scarcely the cour- 
age to ask : to receive my simple Indian wife here, and to 
keep her here while I go to St. Mary’s City and bring back 
a confidential friend — a clergyman — to marry us according 
to the rites of the Church. You will do this great kind- 
ness ? ” he inquired. 

“ Do it ? — Oh, yes ; I will do it. Certainly, I will do 
it,” answered the lady, in very sweet tones. 

“ And when may I bring her? ” pursued Sir Veyne. 

“ Let me see : you go on Monday, I think ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered. 

“And this is Thursday. Bring her to-morrow, Friday. 
The weather is cold. You can take my close carriage for 
the purpose. And I will have a little feast prepared to do 
her honor when she comes,” said the countess, calmly. 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


39 


<c A thousand thanks — oh, ten thousand thanks, most 
noble* friend ! ” fervently exclaimed Sir Yeyne, catching 
and kissing her hand. But he felt it cold as ice in his 
clasp, and he cried out in compunction : 

“ I have kept you too long from the fire — sitting near 
the frosty window, too ! You are chilled through — you are 
half-frozen ! Come away.” 

“ Yes, I am cold — excuse me,” she said. 

And she arose, and left the drawing-room, and hurried to 
her bed-chamber, where she was overheard walking up and 
down the floor, and raving to this effect : 

“ For the passion of a summer, this madman will sacri- 
fice the ambition of his life and the happiness of mine. 
He shall not do it. He shall be saved. It is but the pas- 
sion of a summer. Another year and he will loathe her — • 
the little brute beast of an Indian squaw. Oh, yes, I will 
receive her ! — so hospitably, she shall never leave me again. 
Oh, yes, 1 will feast her ! — so well, that she shall never 
hunger nor thirst more ! Oh, yes, I will assist at her mar- 
riage ceremon} 1 - ! — with a bridegroom so fond, so loving, 
that he shall never, never, never release her from the fold 
of his embrace.” 

Not long did the lady absent herself from her lost lover. 
She composed her spirits, washed her face, and dressed her 
hair ; put on her most becoming robes, arrayed her counte- 
nance in the most alluring smiles, and went down to join 
Sir Yeyne at dinner. And never had she been so gracious, 
so cheerful and so charming before. She even observed 
that Sir Yeyne seemed to open his eyes and to look at her 
in a new light ; and that as his look lingered long and 
almost fondly on her face, he seemed to sigh as if he half- 
regretted his mad marriage with the Indian maiden. 

Be that as it might have been, the next morning, Sir 
Yeyne — accommodated with the close carriage, and driven 


40 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


by the old coachman of Henniker House — went away to 
fetch home his wife. 

And the Countess of Henniker, in feverish excitement, 
set all her household to work to prepare for the fete for the 
reception of her old lover’s Indian bride. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE DEED AND THE DOOM. 

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach 
Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, 

Art thou damn’d. — S hakespeare. 

Tradition has brought us down some account of the 
reception of the Indian bride bj 1 - the lady of the manor. 

The sun was just setting behind the wooded hills on the 
western horizon when the close carriage containing Si* 
Veyne, his “ Shining Star,” and her infant boy, entered the 
grounds of Henniker. 

The lady, with her little girl in her hand and attended 
by her principal servants, came out of her house and down 
the first flight of the terrace stairs to welcome her guests. 

She shook hands again with Sir Veyne; and, when he 
presented his young wife, she took the beautiful creature in 
her arms, kissed her on both cheeks, and then held her off 
at arms’ length and gazed upon her form and face in won- 
der and involuntary admiration. 

And well she might, if the legend tells the truth. The 
lady no longer wondered at the magic spell that had made 
the high-born, haughty Veyne Vandeliere forget his pride 
of Aiste and country, and unite himself with this Indian 
maid. 

Sir Veyne had said that the <( Shining Star” was as pret- 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 41 


ty as Pocahontas when that little princess first won the 
heart of the gallant Captain Rolfe. He scarcely did her 
justice. It was not of the gentle daughter of Powhatan 
that the “Shining Star” reminded the beholder. She more 
naturally recalled the image of that magnificent queen, 
Anacoana, cacique of Xaraguay, whose majestic beauty and 
royal graces, whose wisdom, courtesy and magnanimity, had 
combined to fire and subdue the souls of the proudest and 
most courtly among the Spanish chieftains who had accom- 
panied Columbus in his later voyages to Hispaniola. Tall 
and slender, yet well rounded and graceful in form; delicate 
and regular in feature ; with a clear, pure, soft brown com- 
plexion warming into a richer tint upon the cheeks and lips; 
with long jet black hair, reaching far helow her waist, and 
large, long-lashed dark ey^ that could flash like a falcon’s 
or dream like a dove’s, with an ineffable grace in every 
glance and motion — such was the u Shining Star,” on the 
evening of her presentation to Lady Henniker. 

Her very dress has come down to us, traditionally. It 
was a picturesque and becoming compromise between civil- 
ized and savage costume — a close-fitting black velvet bod- 
dice and a short scarlet skirt, both richly embroidered with 
gold — black hose and scarlet b’oots. . Hor head was bare of 
any covering beside the long black hair which was braided 
with pearl and gold. 

In personal beauty, dignity and grace, I have compared 
her to the great queen Anacoana. The resemblance did not 
cease there. In the treachery of her pretended friend 
and in the tragedy of her fate, she was also like that mag- 
nanimous hut ill-starred princess. 

No shadow of the coming sorrow was on her face, how- 
ever, as she returned the embrace of her hostess and suffered 
herself to be led up into the house of her mortal foe. Not 
the “ fatal entrance of Duncan, under the battlements” of 


42 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

Macbeth’s castle, was more fatal to the royal guest than was 
this visit to the Indian princess. 

The hostess, treacherous as Macbeth’s wife, herself 
attended her guest to a bed-chamber, where every comfort 
and convenience of civilized and refined life awaited her. 
Rich dresses and jewels were displayed as wedding offerings 
to the young Indian wife. With a dignity and grace won- 
derful in one of her birth and habits, she thanked the lady 
for these presents, but declined to change the dress she wore 
and which she said had been commended by her husband. 
But she begged to see her boy. 

The babe had been given in charge of one of the female 
domestics of the house, and now at his mother’s desire he 
was brought to her. Proudly and fondly the “ Shining 
Star,” placed the infant in the arms of the lady, feeling, ah ! 
too sure of her sympathy. It is said that the lady caressed 
and fondled the child to such a degree that she won the 
confidence and affection of the mother at the very onset. 
Nor did she give over dandling him until the second dinner- 
bell summoned her and her guests to the table. It was a 
sumptuous entertainment — the board blazed with gold and 
Sevres china and Bohemian glass, and “ groaned,” as the 
phrase goes, under its burden of native and of foreign deli- 
cacies and luxuries. 

Lady Henniker, splendidly arrayed in a crimson velvet 
train, white satin robe, ostrich plumes and diamonds, pre- 
sided at the feast. Opposite to her sat Sir Veyne in full 
evening dress, and by his side sat the “ Shining Star.” 

Ah, it was a dinner of death ! a Barmacides’ feast, that ! 
The old butler, assisted by two footmen, waited — the butler 
standing behind his lady’s chair, the footmen standing each 
behind the guests. All seemed “ merry as a marriage bell.” 
The hostess and her guests laughed and jested without 
restraint. 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


43 


And when the cloth was removed and the dessert and the 
•wines placed upon the table, their hilarity increased — it 
knew no bounds. 

“ I fill to the health of the beautiful bride ! ” said Lady 
Henniker, rising in her place. There was a jewelled golden 
goblet, an heirloom in the family, that had been set before 
the young Indian guest, as if to do her honor. A waiting 
footman filled it with sparkling wine, while his companion 
performed the same service for her husband. 

“Let us drink philopena said the innocent Indian wife — 
“let us drink the way you taught me in my wigwam.” She 
spoke in her pretty broken English, and it is certain the 
lady did not understand her — it is most certain from what 
followed. “ Let us drink philopena,” she persisted, holding 
up her rich goblet. 

With a most loving glance he smiled assent, and in an 
instant, in the twinkling of an eye, the heads were close 
together, with each an arm around the other’s neck, so that 
her jewelled goblet she held to his lips, while he held his to 
hers. 

“ Stop,” shrieked the hostess, starting to her feet and 
dashing down her own glass ; “ stop on your life, Sir 
Veyne.” 

It was too late. He had half drained the goblet. When 
it dropped from his hknds he fell back, convulsed and 
speechless. The poison was sharp and sudden, meant to do 
its deadly work effectually. 

The Indian wife sprang to her feet in mortal terror. The 
hostess ran from her place to the assistance of the dying 
man. The servants stood around in horror and affright. 

“ Hide — ride swiftly to the Indian village and bring their 
medicine men here. They are the only doctors in reach,” 
cried the lady, in an agony of distress. And the terrified 
servants rushed out of the room to go upon that errand. 


44 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

tl Veyne ! Veyne ! speak to me ! speak ! You didn’t drink 
it all . You can not die,” she shrieked, wringing her hands 
and bending over the victim. 

“ He rallied for a moment, struggled and spoke, but not 
to her. Turning his dying eyes upon his dear wife— 
“ Darling, the death was destined for you. Thank heaven 
it has fallen on me instead,” he said, and fell back — dead. 
The countess bent over him in an agony of remorse and 
grief. She chafed his rigid hands and kissed his cold lips, 
and called on him by every endearing epithet to awake, to 
speak to her and to live. 

Vain, of course, were all her efforts. Finding them so, 
she turned furiously upon the Indian widow, who all this 
time had sat at her dead husband’s feet, with her head cov- 
ered and bowed in the patient despair of her race. 

“ You did it ; you, you hound ! ” she fiercely shrieked, 
shaking her hand at the prostrate figure. “ You put the 
poisoned goblet to his lips and killed him. You did it, 
and you shall hang. You shall hang like a dog for this 
dfeed.” 

And more infuriated still, either by the anguish of her 
own regrets, or by the mute patience of that prostrate 
creature, she snatched the covering from the widow’s head, 
and seizing and dragging her to her feet, shook her fiercely, 
as a lioness might shake her prey. 

But the Indian princess was brave and resolute as she 
was self-possessed and patient. She was more than a 
match for the lady. Catching Lady Henniker’s hands, she 
mastered her with a single effort, and holding her at arms’ 
length, pointed to the dead, and said — but in the broken 
music of her imperfect speech that I can not pretend to 
render literally : — •“ You have slain the noblest brave your 
God ever made. You have slain him treacherously at your 
own feast — in the sacred bread and wine. You have wid- 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


45 


owed me in my hour of love, and joy, and trust.” Then 
raising her arm and face on high, with an awful majesty in 
her look and gesture, she continued : “ And may the Great 
Spirit of my fathers visit this treachery upon you and 
your daughters. May the curse of widowhood fall upon 
them in their youth, and make them as desolate as you 
have made me.” 

Then flinging the form of the lady from her, she turned 
and kneeled again by the dead body of her husband. 

But the lady, as soon as she was released, stamped 
furiously and called aloud : 

“ My servants out there ! Help ! help ! ” 

Every man and woman left in tho house came rushing 
into the room. 

“Arrest that murderess! She has poisoned Sir Veyne!” 
she cried. 

But the “ Shining Star ” drew herself up, lifted her 
head, stretched out her arm, and looked at them with a 
glance and gesture so full of majesty, that the boldest 
among the serving-men recoiled before her. 

“ Seize her ! seize the poisoner ! ” shrieked the lady, 
stamping her feet. 

The men came on to obey their mistress. But the 
“Shining Star” was as strong as she was brave and patient. 
She threw them off one after another with an ease that 
scarcely disturbed her calm despair. 

“ Knock her on the head ! knock her down, I say ! 
Throw yourselves upon her all at once ! And bind her 
with cords where she is ! She is but a dog of an Indian, 
and she is a murderess and a poisoner ! ” screamed and 
stamped the phrenzied lady. 

Oh, shame of womanhood ! Oh, deeper shame of man- 
hood ! The men obeyed their mistress’s order. They 
threw themselves en masse upon the heroic woman. They 


46 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


threw her down, hound her hand and foot with cords that 
cut into her flesh, and then they stood around her panting 
and palpitating form, awaiting further instructions. 

“ Take her now up into one of the unfurnished rooms of 
the attic, and lock her in there without fire, mind you — 
without fire, food, or bedclothes. It is a freezing night ; 
it may cool her blood a little, ” said the lady. 

Her cruel mandate was obeyed. 

“ And now,” inquired the countess, “ have the messen- 
gers I directed to go to the Indian village set out yet ? ” 

Her servants went to ascertain, and returned with the 
news that the messengers had not yet started; but thpt 
they were saddling the horses, and would be gone in a few 
minutes. 

“ Then stop them. It is of no use for them to get the 
medicine men now. Stop them, and tell them to prepare 
to set out to-night to St. Mary’s City and tell the sheriff’s 
officers what has happened, and bring them here to take 
this criminal off our hands.” 

Again the men obej^ed. And that same night the 
countess wrote a letter addressed to the Governor of the 
Province, who was her friend, and she sent it by her mes- 
sengers to St. Mary’s City. 

And the dead body of Sir Yeyne was laid in state in the 
drawing room, and his widow was kept a prisoner in the 
attic to await the arrival of the officers. 

In the interim the lady, overwhelmed with grief, horror 
and remorse, kept her own chamber, whence she issued her 
orders, which were generally held to be as immutable as 
the oft quoted laws of the Medes and Persians. 

Her strict seclusion, however, gave an opportunity to the 
old butler who had the custody of her prisoner, to show 
some humanity to the hapless creature. He dared not, it 
is true, give her bedding or fire, lest the lady should chance 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


47 


to visit the prison, and find out these contraband comforts; 
hut he took her nourishing food and drink, which, however, 
the bereaved widow and captive princess could scarcely 
touch. 

And in the dead of night, when the countess was sup- 
posed to have retired to rest, the compassionate butler would 
prevail on the terrified nurse to let him take the little in- 
fant to his imprisoned mother that she might suckle him. 
And this was the only consolation the wretched Indian 
woman had in her captivity. 

A week passed away in this manner. It took at least 
that time, in the state of the roads and the limited conven- 
iences of travel, for the messengers to go and return from 
St. Mary’s City. The lady in her secluded chamber was 
aging so fast, that every day seemed years as it passed over 
her. The captive in the attic was wasting away in uncom- 
plaining despair. The child in the nursery was pining for 
want of its mother’s tender care. And the body in the 
drawing-room, cold though the weather was, began to need 
burial. 

At length a long procession of officers and men from St. 
Mary’s City, arrived, and their reception broke up, in some 
degree, the breathless horror of the time. As the coroner 
was among them, the closed drawing-room was opened, 
aired and fumigated, and an inquest was held on the body. 

The Countess was the first and chief witness called. As 
•she entered the room, clothed in the deepest mourning, her 
long black velvet train, borne by two pages also in deep 
mourning, her appearance is said to have struck all present 
with the profoundest awe. Those who had known her a 
few weeks before would scarcely have recognized her now. 
They had seen her last, a beautiful and happy woman of 
twenty-eight ; they saw her now suddenly aged, as if a half 
century had passed over her. 


48 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

She bowed her haughty head with stately grace, to the 
officers of the law, and advanced to take her stand. But a 
dozen gentlemen sprang hastily forward, and the two fore- 
most of them placed an easy chair and a footstool, as the 
coroner begged her to be seated while giving in her testi- 
mony. 

This testimony was to the effect that the Indian wife of 
Sir Yeyne Vandeliere, called in her native tongue the 
u Shining Star,” while at the dinner with him, had put her 
arm around the neck of her husband, and placed a goblet 
of wine to his lips, of which he drank, and presently after 
— died. The old butler and the two footmen, called in 
turn to the witness stand, corroborated this testimony. 
They told the literal, lying facts. The young wife had 
placed the poisoned goblet to her husband’s lips, and he 
had drank of it and died. But who stealthily put the 
subtle poison in the bottom of the goblet before the wine 
was poured? And for whom was the draught intended? 
The coroner’s jury never stopped to inquire. They were no 
wiser than their successors are now. Besides, there was a 
deeply-rooted prejudice against the Indian race. It took 
but little time on this occasion for the jury to find a verdict 
to the effect that Captain, Sir Vejme Vandeliere, had 
come to his death from the effect of poison administered by 
the hands of his reputed wife, an Indian woman known by 
the name of the “ Shining Star.” A warrant was issued 
against her in accordance with this verdict. 

The officers of the law remained a day and night at 
Henniker, and on the succeeding morning prepared to de- 
part and carry their prisoner with them, in irons, to St. 
Mary’s city. At first she was fettered hands and feet ; but 
finally it was found necessary to release her hands that she 
might nurse her infant, which she was permitted to take 
with her. 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


49 


It is said, that as she came forth from the house, with her 
baby pressed to her bosom, walking slowly because of her 
fettered ancles, guarded by armed officers, every beholder 
was struck with admiration at her beauty, and at the pa- 
tience and dignity of her sorrow. Not Queen Zenobia, led 
in chains to Rome, even showed more of majesty in despair. 
She was placed in a close carriage, furnished by Lady Hen- 
niker for the purpose, and so she was taken away from 
Henniker House never to return thither. They were to 
travel day and night. 

In the darkness of the night that followed, while passing 
through a deep forest, the cavalcade were surprised by a 
party of her tribe, who made a desperate effort to rescue 
their princess. A short but bloody struggle ensued. Seve- 
ral of the constables were wounded. But more than three 
times that number of savages were killed before they were 
finally beaten off, as of course they were bound to be ; for 
what could a handful of poor Indians, almost without wea- 
pons, do against a constabulary force armed to the teeth ? 

The “ Shining Star ” was taken safely to St. Mary’s City, 
and lodged in jail to await her trial. It came on quickly 
enough. Lady Henniker and her servants were summoned 
to attend court as witnesses. And upon their testimony, 
given no doubt by the servants in good faith, the innocent 
Indian widow was convicted of poisoning her husband and 
condemned to expiate the crime on the scaffold. It is said 
that she bore her sentence with the courage, patience and 
dignity that had distinguished her throughout her trial. 
She spoke no word, but only bent and kissed the babe 
that lay upon her bosom. She was taken back to jail to 
await the day of death. 

Her father, the chief of the' Pocomocoes, braved all dan- 
ger of arrest for his share in the attack upon the cavalcade, 
and came to St. Mary’s City to treat for the ransom of his 
3 


50 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

daughter. He offered the wealth of all his tribe ; but, of 
course, in vain. He was made to understand that in any 
criminal case ransom was impossible. Then he asked per- 
mission to see his daughter, and that was granted to him, 
under certain restrictions. He saw her in her prison cell 
and in the presence of a turnkey. In this interview there 
was more of fortitude than tenderness exhibited by both. 
She told him she was guiltless and also who was guilty. 
The chieftain bade his child be brave and meet death ^ be- 
came his daughter, seeing that she was doomed to die. 
But he also swore by the graves of his fathers that she 
should not die the death of shame. He bade her farther to 
fear nothing, but to trust to him to save her from that igno- 
miny. And so he left her. 

The turnkey, as in duty bound, reported the conversa- 
tion to the warden of the prison, who afterwards consulted 
with the sheriff. In their united wisdom, they came to the 
conclusion that the chief intended, by some secret means, 
to convey some subtle poison or a deadly weapon to his 
daughter’s hands, and save her from the ignominy of a pub- 
lic execution. And great precautions were taken to prevent 
his fancied purpose being carried into effect. AllTier food 
and drink were sent her from the warden’s private table. 
Ho one was permitted to pass into her presence without a 
previous examination. Two female warders took turns in 
guarding her, both day and night. She was never left 
alone for an instant. 

At length, the day of. execution came. Vast was the 
crowd assembled to see the Indian princess die. A strong 
detachment of soldiers formed a hollow square around the 
.scaffold to guard it against any possible attempt for the 
rescue of the condemned. Strongly guarded also, at the 
appointed hour, she issued from the prison, pressing her 
young infant to her bdsom. Walking with the same st^te^ 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 51 

ly step, wearing the same calm air of dignity and patience, 
she passed through the hooting crowd, and ascended to the 
scaffold. 

There were ecclesiastics there who tendered her now, for 
the last time, the often proffered — always rejected — offices 
of their Church. They urged her now to forgive her ene- 
mies, and to seek forgiveness for herself, before it should be 
forever too late. But, with the pride of a pagan priestess, 
she waived them aside. With matchless dignity, she re- 
plied : 

u The Great Spirit alone has power to pardon or to pun- 
ish. I have spoken to Him, and He has heard me.” 

And* she bent her head and pressed a kiss upon her 
nursing infant’s brow, and whispered to one compassionate 
officer there : 

“ Let me keep the child till the last minute comes, and 
then you take him from me, and send him to my tribe, 
according to your word.” 

And he bowed the promise he could not otherwise utter. 

The fatal moment had then arrived. The cap was in the 
hands of one assistant, the noose in those of another. The 
hangman stood with his foot near the spring of the trap. 
The sheriff held the white handkerchief, the dropping of 
which was to be the signal for the execution. But — none 
of these ignominies were destined to degrade the person of 
the chieftain’s daughter.^ For just as the compassionate 
officer took the infant from her arms — her arms which 
'another assistant swiftly seized to bind — an arrow sped 
from a distant bow, cleft the air, whizzed over the heads of 
the crowd and passed the officers on the platform and 
buried its point deeply in the brave and loving heart of the 
Indian princess. 

Her father had kept his word. His daughter died by 
his hand.” 


9 


52 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


CHAPTER y. 

HOW THE CURSE WORKED. 

Hear thou and hope not, if by word or deed. 

Yea by invisible thought, unuttered wish, 

Thou hast been rainistrant to this horrid act; 

With full collected force of malediction 
I do pronounce upon thy soul, despair. — Matuein. 

A curse will follow them like the black plague, 

Tracking thy footsteps ever, day and night, 

Morning and eve, summer and winter— ever ! — Proctor. 

And did this modern “ Roman father/’ did this Red Vir- 
ginius escape after doing this deed ? 

Yes ; for there was no legal evidence against him. 
Every one seemed morally sure that he had done the deed, 
but no one could prove it upon him. The sending of that 
shaft so swiftly and surely home to its mark, just at the 
last crisis, was a feat of archery that no one in the country 
but the Eagle Eye was capable of performing ; but no one 
saw him do it. His Indian subtlety had eluded all vigi- 
lance in the completion of his purpose, and afterwards all 
investigation into it, and thus he went unpursued by the 
law. He lived, it is said, to a great old age ; lived to hand 
down the tradition of his daughter’s wrongs to his grand- 
children, and to his great-grandchildren, and to charge 
them as a sacred duty with the execution of her curse from 
generation to generation. 

The child was taken home by the compassionate officer 
to whom he had been confided by his unhappy mother. 
He would have been taken by him to her tribe, but for a 
circumstance that took the whole settlement by surprise. 

A lawyer, who had been absent in J amestown during all 
these proceedings, returned to St. Mary’s City soon after 
the death of “Shining Star.” He had been the solicitor of 
the deceased Sir Yeyne. He produced a will, that had 




THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 53 

been executed by that great naval commander, just before 
he sailed against the pirates of the bay. This Trill had 
been made as a sure provision for his wife and child, in the 
not improbable event of the commander’s death in battle 
or by shipwreck. In making this will he acknowledged as 
his wife, the Indian woman who was known by the name 
of the u Shining Star,” and who was the young daughter of 
the Eagle Eye, the great chief of the Pocomocoes, and he 
devised to her and to her expected issue the whole of his 
considerable property ; and he appointed a priest of great 
piety, executor /of his will, and guardian of his child or 
children as the case might turn out. 

And so, of course, the boy inherited the whole estate, 
and under such circumstances, was not given up to his 
mother’s tribe. 

He grew up to manhood, married and left the neighbor- 
hood with his wife. They were supposed to have gone to 
the far South, or Southwest, but since their departure from 
St. Mary’s, tradition has lost sight of them and their race. 

As for the wicked woman, her life became the hell that 
she had made it. She was one whose every emotion was a 
passion, and whose every passion was a burning and con- 
suming fire. Her life-long love had been a fire ; and now 
her remorse was a fiercer fire. She shrivelled from that 
hour of her awful guilt ; she shrivelled as one scorched up 
and consumed by inward fever; she withered — some said 
under the influence of intense sorrow for the murdered 
friend of her youth ; some said from remorse for her horri- * 
ble crimes ; and others from the blighting power of the 
Indian woman’s curse. She withered — and yet she could 
not die. 

Gray-haired and wrinkled and bent with age, before she 
had seen thirty years, she retired to Henniker and never- 
more reappeared in society. She became very devout and 


54 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

passed her life in prayer and penance. She built the church 
and 'station of St. Bosalie, and richly endowed them both. 
She did many good works besides, and gained in the prov- 
ince the reputation of a saint. 

And her daughter, the little Lady Berenice, was placed in 
the strict convent of the Carmelites, then lately established 
in the province. She was doomed by her mother, as an- 
other offering for that mother’s sin, to take the veil, so that 
her large inheritance should go to endow the new convent. 

But she did not become a nun. When she arrived at 
woman’s estate she took her destiny in her own hands and 
decided it for herself. 

She must have had a strong will of her own, inherited, 
doubtless from her mother. And there is a funny story told 
of her flight from the Carmelite convent. The site of the 
Carmelite convent was selected for the superior salubrity 
of its air. 

.For the same reason, salubrity, a society of priests 
founded a boys’ college in the same neighborhood. These 
two establishments— the convent school for girls and the 
Catholic college for boys — were among the first and best in- 
stitutions of learning in the province. 

The two buildings were far enough apart, and had no sort 
of connection. But the grounds of both were very exten- 
sive, and they were contiguous — the south boundary of the 
convent grounds and the north boundary of the college 
grounds running closely parallel, with only the high-road 
between them. 

In the convent-school, young ladies of the first rank in 
the province were placed for education. In the Catholic 
college, young gentlemen of the like rank were received. 
These boys and girls who frequently met in holiday times 
in their own home circles in St. Mary’s City were never, of 
course, permitted to hold any sort of conversation during 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


55 


their school terms ; but when they were exercising in their 
respective grounds, they sometimes saw each other. 

Among the pupils in the convent-school, as I said before, 
was the little Lady Berenice Henniker. And among the 
students in the Catholic college was Benedict* Calvert, a 
young relative of the Lord Proprietary. A wild young 
blade, by all accounts, he was ; the only son of a widowed 
mother, rich, spoiled, self-willed, reckless, unmanageable, 
but withal not vicious or wicked. At the discreet age of 
seventeen he imagined himself desperately in love with 
Lady Berenice, then a discreet damsel of fifteen. 

He paid his addresses to her by flinging apples, oranges, 
and other contraband articles over into the convent grounds 
for her consumption. Sometimes these missiles fell on the 
road between the two grounds ; sometimes they were so 
well aimed as to light in the lap of the lady for whom they 
were intended. And once or twice, alack, they struck some 
reverend sister between the shoulders or on the breast ! 

Whenever the young fellow was foiihd out in these follies, 
he was severely reprimanded and threatened with expulsion. 

This went on, however, for two or three years. Mean- 
while, Lady Berenice had been advised by her mother of 
her destiny to the veil. As she never left the convent except 
to go to Henniker, where she found even a stricter rule of 
life, she was naturally very weary of restraint and very anx- 
ious for liberty. 

One day freedom came to her very unexpectedly. She 
was now wearing the white veil of the novice, and her special 
duty on this day was the oversight of the children, who 
were out in the grounds taking their usual exercise. 

Presently her lover, who was out on a half day’s leave, 
came riding down 'the road. When he had reached a ris- 
ing ground, he saw Lady Berenice and her young charges 
in the convent grounds. The horse he rode was a powerful 


56 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


hunter, who could carry the heaviest man in the country, 
and take a five-barred fence with a broad ditch on the other 
side of it as easily as a kitten could jump over a stick. And 
the low brick wall of the convent grounds was a trifle in 
comparison. 

Young Benedict Calvert acted on impulse, I do believe. - 
Seeing in reality his sweetheart in the white veil of the 
novice, seeing in imagination the black veil of the nun that 
would soon replace it and hide her from the world and from 
his sight forever, he took a sudden and a desperate resolu- 
tion. He put his hunter to the wall, cleared it with a bound, 
and galloped straight up to the group of girls, who scattered 
in all directions, leaving Lady Berenice standing alone. 

“ One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear," — 

You know the rest — in a word, he lifted her up behind 
him, told her to put her arms around his waist, and hold 
tight, and not be afraid but to trust to him and his hunter ; 
he galloped away towards the wall, cleared it with another 
bound, and dashed along the highway to the amazement and 
consternation of all the passers by. 

It is said they had raced at least five miles before the 
little lady recovered from her astonishment and regained 
her powers of speech sufficiently to exclaim : 

“ What are you about ? Where are you carrying me ? 
Don't you know that this is a sacrilege, and they will excom- 
municate me?" 

“ That's just what I want 'em to do," answered the young 
scrapegrace, “ for in that case you never can be a nun, you 
know." 

u Oh, but they'll shut me up." 

“ When they catch you. But never fear. Trust to me 
and my horse. He is warranted to carry double, and to 
outrun anything on four legs that can be sent after him. 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 57 


Still, if you insist upon it, you know, I will carry you back 
to the convent,” added the scamp, mischievously. 

“ I’d rather die,” answered the young lady. 

" All right,” he replied. And on they scampered, over 
the highway, to the terror of all travellers, who quickly got 
out of their way for a pair of lunatics. At nightfall he 
reached his mother’s country house, where he was not only 
lord and master, but idol and despot. 

Knowing his mother to be absent at the time, he bullied 
the female servants into supplying his companion with a 
proper travelling dress. And after they had had supper 
they set out, with fresh horses, for the then new city of 
Annapolis, -where they arrived late at the close of the week, 
and where they were married by an Episcopal clergyman. 

They were minors, but that did not make any more dif- 
ference in the Province of Maryland then, than it does in 
the State of Maryland now. Population was the main 
want of the colony, and the chief object of the political 
economists. Early marriages were encouraged. Minors 
might marry legally without the consent of parents or 
guardians, then as now. 

After the mad marriage he took her to his mother’s 
house in St. Mary’s City. The ladj r immediately went in- 
to hysterics ; but presently came out of them all right, and 
forgave her son and received her daughter-in-law. Being 
a Protestant, she was not so much scandalized by the feat 
of her hopeful son as a good Catholic must have been. 
Lady Henniker never forgave her daughter, or acknowl- 
edged her son-in-law. How could she, when they were 
both excommunicated by the church. But she bowed her 
stricken head lower than before, was heard to say that the 
Indian woman’s curse was working, and never afterwards 
mentioned the matter. 

The curse did work, or seem to do so. Most people 


58 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

prophesied that no good could ever come of such a sacrile- 
gious marriage. And very little good came of it in fact. 
Within a few months after that marriage, while they were 
all staying at their country house, the young husband went 
out to hunt, and he never came back. When days had 
passed, and diligent search had been made, his dead body 
was found in the woods with an arrow sticking through his 
heart. 

Some-said it was the judgment of Heaven upon his un- 
holy marriage. Others affirmed that it was the vengeance 
of Eagle Eye, the lonely old chief of the Pocomocoes, car- 
rying out his daughter’s curse. The Lady Berenice con- 
sidered it the punishment of her sin in leaving her con- 
vent. She was overwhelmed with grief and remorse. She 
became almost as great a penitent and devotee as her 
mother was. She humbled herself before the church she 
had offended ; and after a long time, she was forgiven, and 
received back into its communion. She took her infant 
daughter, a posthumous child born some weeks after its 
father’s death, whom she called Magdalene, in memor} r of 
her own repentance, and she went down to Henniker and 
joined her lady mother. 

There the two women led a recluse life, devoting them- 
selves to prayer, penance, alms-giving, and lastly to the edu- 
cation of the little Magdalene Calvert. In their zeal they 
would have devoted this child also to a convent, but; she 
was a member of the Lord Proprietary’s family, though a 
distant one, and she was the heiress of a very large estate ; 
so both the Orphan’s Court and the powerful Calvert clan 
had a great deal to do with her destiny. They would not 
permit her to be placed in a convent. Nevertheless she was 
brought up° very strictly by her educators. 

This sweet Maidlen grew up as amiable and intellectual 
as she was beautiful. That gentleman of her deceased 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


59 


father’s family, who had been appointed as one of her 
guardians by the decision of the Orphan’s Court, as a check 
upon the fanaticisms of her mother’s family, would not con- 
sent that she would be doomed to take the veil. This 
being the case, her mother did the next best thing she 
could. She educated her daughter with the greatest strict- 
ness of discipline, told her of the malediction that justly or 
unjustly followed her family ; and so she ever shadowed 
that young life with superstitious gloom. 

However, when Maidlen was twenty years of age, and 
within a year of her majority, when she would come into 
the actual possession of her large estates, her guardian, who 
was, I believe, also her great-uncle, came down to see her. 
Perceiving, from the influences around the girl, that if some 
wholesome change were? not made in her way of life, that 
she would, of her own accord, as soon as she should become 
of age, go into a convent ; and that such a change must be 
made while he yet had power over her person ; he took her 
back with him on a visit to her relatives in St. Mary’s 
City. There her condition was so completely changed that 
from being one of the most secluded of recluses, she became 
the most brilliant belle at the gay court of the Lord Pro- 
prietary. 

And jmt she retained all her truth and goodness. The 
death of her grandmother, at an advanced age, and who, 
by the way, died in an odor of sanctity, brought her hack « 
to Henniker House for a season ; but she was never 
brought to the gloomy asceticism that had darkened her 
youth. After the year of mourning expired she went 
again to St. Mary’s City, accompanied by her mother. On 
the elder lady, also, the change of scene produced a whole- 
some effect. She went with her daughter much into so- 
ciety, and was much elated by the admiration everywhere 
bestowed upon the lovely Maidlen. Indeed, the change 


60 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


that came over both mother and daughter was quite won- 
derful. 

The removal of the guilty woman and gloomy fanatic 
who had darkened their lives, no doubt helped this very 
much. 

Mrs. Calvert was even induced to tolerate a suitor to her 
daughter, when that suitor was also one of the most dis- 
tinguished young men in the province. But she could not 
at once get over the terror of the curse. It will perhaps 
amaze you to hear that these two women, mother and 
daughter, being then of sound and well cultivated minds, 
before giving a final answer to this suitor, actually did 
make a secret pilgrimage to the Indian village of Pomo- 
como to inquire into the matter of the malediction and to 
consul^ an Indian medicine man magician on the subject. 

The “ Eagle Eye ” — the old chief, was long since dead. 
The son, the “ Dead Shot,” was absent on a hunting expe- 
dition. But “ Long Sight,” an Indian seer of fabulous age 
and wonderful wisdom, was sunning himself in his wigwam 
door. Him the pilgrims consulted, and his answer was as 
obscure and impossible of fulfilment, as any oracle ever ut- 
tered of old ! 

A chain of impossible contingencies threw the mother 
and daughter into the deepest despair. They returned to 
St. Mary’s City, and after some days of intense suffering, 
sent for the impatient suitor and confided to him the con- 
ditions and the curse. Being of a strong mind and joyous 
spirit, he laughed at both. So fine and wholesome was his 
influence over both women that he brought them over to 
his views, and he married Maidlen Calvert. 

Eight months after the marriage, one night when she was 
sitting up late, waiting for his return, and wondering w T hy 
he, who never staid out so late before, should be gone so 
long now, his dead body was suddenly brought home to her 


THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 


61 


by the constables. It had been found in the street. There 
was no visible cause for his death, no mark of violence 
upon his person. And a subsequent post-mortem examina- 
tion showed no disorganization within. The cause of his 
sudden death remained an impenetrable mystery. 

The shock of her husband’s sudden death proved fatal to 
the lovely young widow. She was seized with the pangs of 
premature labor, and gave birth to twins — a boy and a girl. 
The boy lived only to be baptized, and then died. The 
jmung mother survived but a few hours and expired. She 
was buried with her baby on her bosom. All this happened 
within eight months after the fatal marriage. The surviv- 
ing twin, the little delicate girl, was adopted by the broken 
hearted mother of Maidlen, and most tenderly brought up. 
She taught the babe to call her> mother, and the little Dor- 
othy never knew her otherwise. Mrs. Calvert died* when 
Dorothy was about eighteen years of age. On her death- 
bed she confided the family secret to the keeping of' her 
daughter, as she always called the girl, and she enjoined 
her, with her last dying breath, never to continue the curse 
by marrying. 

And the fair Dorothy obeyed the solemn injunction for a 
time, indeed. She had many suitors but rejected them all, 
until the frank and gallant sailor Captain Jernyngham, met 
her in society and fell in love with her. A very handsome 
and attractive man he was. Dorothy could not withstand 
him. She loved him to distraction. She told him her 
story and left the issue with him. He, like his predeces- 
sor, laughed the curse to scorn ! He said that the deaths 
of the two former men were mere coincidences ; that in 
wild and unsettled times and places men were liable to sud- 
den and violent death ; that he himself was a sailor and 
might at any time find a watery grave without anybody 
taking the trouble to curse him into it. 


62 THE CRIME AND THE CURSE. 

So they were married. 

Father Ignatius, who performed the ceremony, and who 
was the spiritual guide of both, enjoined them never more to 
mention the malediction, but to let the very memory of it 
die out. And from that moment the matter was hushed 
up. 

But that silence did not save the gallant young sailor 
from the doom that he had dared in marrying a daughter 
of the accursed House of Henniker. Within a year of his 
wedding day, he fell in a sea-fight. 

He left a daughter to carry on the family fate. 

But from the day the Indian Princess invoked the curse 
upon the race, no male heir has been born to the line, and 
no heiress has been married without being widowed within 
the year. 


I 


WAS IT A GHOST? 

A CHRISTMAS STORY. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

It was my last week at school — I had been an inmate 

of the celebrated Seminary of , in Wilmington, for 

three years past. I had graduated the last term, but in- 
duced my father to allow me to remain a few months 
longer, to perfect myself in music and Herman, and return 
to him a finished young lady. Ah ! how much more is ex- 
pressed in that one word, than is really intended. Fin- 
ished ! Yes, too often in all the arts of coquetry and 
deception, and not unfrequently, a finish is put to all 
hopes of the young lady proving either a source of happi- 
ness or comfort to her parents. My chief regret in bidding 
adieu to school-days was the parting from my dearest friend 
and room-mate. I had tried to induce her to return home 
with me for the Christmas festivities ; but she would not 
think of it ; she must return to her home, her father needed 
her, but she had never invited me to visit her. Often she 
had said : 

“ Oh ! if you could only go with me.” 

I was sitting wondering about this, when I was clasped 
in her arms, and she exclaimed : 

“ At last, dear Pearl, I have father’s permission to bring 
you home with me, — you know I have told you he was 
afflicted with a dreadful melancholy — and he will never see 
any strangers ; therefore we have little or no company, — 
but now brother has to leave on business for a month, and 

( 63 ) 


64 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


he has written for me to return immediately, and bring you 
with me; oh ! I am so happy.” 

I was glad too ; and anticipating this, had obtained 
father’s consent, if invited, to return with Eva Garnett to 
her home in Virginia. I had met Frank, her brother, sev- 
eral times when he came to visit his sister, and was not 
very unwilling to meet him again ; but of this, or of there 
being a brother in the question, father had never heard. 

We arrived at the depot only a few miles from Oak 
Grove, and were met by the old driver Uncle Lew. with 
the carriage, who said : 

“ Massa Frank sends his ’grets, and say ole marse too 
sick for him to be leff alone.” 

A few minutes’ drive, and we reached Eva’s home. I 
gazed with amazement at the massive stone wall, high 
ceilings, and deep-set windows — so different from the pretty 
white cottages of our village in New Hampshire. Indeed, 
it was a grand old place ; but I could not throw off the 
feeling of awe which seemed to have taken possession of 
me. 

Frank met us in the hall, saying : 

u Do not be uneasy ; father is not ill, more than usual, 
but he seemed more depressed, and I thought you would 
excuse me.” 

I thought he held my hand a little longer than neces- 
sary, and looked in my eyes in a way that satisfied me — I 
knew I had been remembered. Eva spent most of the 
evening with her father, and Frank, with me, in the grand 
old drawing-room. I could not, to save me, help looking 
over my shoulder occasionally. At last Frank said : 

“ What is the matter, what are you looking for ? ” 

“Oh! nothing! Please excuse me. But I have never 
been in such a large, stately room. It reminds me of the 
( Haunted Hall’ of olden times,” I lightly said. 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


65 


He gave me a strange and inquiring look, which I did 
not understand then, but soon afterwards did. 

11 1 will try to dispel such gloomy thoughts,” said Frank. 
Rising and opening the piano, he began playing a brilliant 
inspiring air; at its conclusion he pulled the bell-cord, 
which was answered by a bright-looking negro boy of 
about twelve years. 

Frank gave him a nod. The boy made a profound bow, 
and as the keys of the instrument sent forth the strains of 
a merry jig tune, he began to dance. I had heard much of 
the negro dancing, but never before had seen any. Surely 
this was the perfection of a “ Virginia break down.” 
Eyes, nose, mouth, every feature and limb participating in 
the dance. I laughed immoderately at his various antics, 
which were kept up for fifteen or twenty minutes ; then 
Frank said: 

u That will do, Sinbad, you can go.” With another deep 
bow and a continuation of summersets he took his depar- 
ture. Frank had to leave next morning early, on a three- 
weeks’ trip, and I saw scarcely anything of Eva, as she 
had to be in her father’s room all the time. 

I went to my room quite early ; and, in about an hour, 
Mammy Cassie, Eva’s old nurse, came, saying : 

“ I thought you might be kind of lonesome, so I eame up 
to stay wid you, if you please, Missey.” 

“ I am very glad to have }mu, for I do feel a little timid. 
I never like to be alone much ; and indeed, mammy, this 
place makes me think of all the ghost-stories I have ever 
heard of.” 

She gave me thl same queer look that Frank had, and 
said : / 

“ Missey, some of dese niggers been telling you some of 
dem foolishness about dis place, I know.” 

4 


66 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


« No indeed, mammy ! I’ve not heard anything of the 
kind,” I answered. 

“ Well den honey, in case dey mout, and not tell de truff, 
I ’spect I better do it myself.” 

« Thank you, mammy,” I answered ; “ I love Eva dearly, 
and of course feel deeply interested in all concerning her 
friends. Go on, please.” 

“Well, you see, Missey, I’se been in dis family all my 
life. I was Miss Evaline’s (dat’s Miss Eva’s mar) maid. I 
was wid her all de time till her death, which happened when 
Miss Eva was only two years ole. Poor Miss Evaline, she 
died of a broken heart. She cotched de melancholy from 
Miss Eva’s pa, and it killed her, honey; no kind of disease 
but dat. But I must tell you how Miss Evaline came to 
marry de Doctor. You see, honey, ole miss, dat’s Miss 
Eva’s grandmar, she died and leff Miss Evaline when she 
was only a little baby. My mammy riz her and me toged- 
der. Ole Marse Captain Garnet he was so wrapped up in 
his little darter he nebber married agin, and nebber would 
hab her out of his sight ; nebber sent her away to school, 
but had teachers to her. Well, after she learn all de'gob- 
nesS could teach her, ole marse he would hab her go to town 
Richmond, to ’joy society and fashable life. Ole marse 
nebber was berry healthy arter his wife’s death, and offin 
use to hab bad spells come ober him ; so one night while he 
was in town he was taken awful bad. Everybody says he 
mus die ; dey send me for de doctor. In course I goed for 
de one closest by, and fetch Doctor Powers. 

“ Miss Evaline. she ketches hole on him, and look at him 
so moanful and ’seeching like, telling of him to save her 
dear pa, and she’d gib him ebery ting in de worle she had. 
She nebber ’spected den what a big price he was goin’ to 
ask. 

“Well, honey, ’ginst ebery body tinking, old marse 


WA S IT A GHOST*? 


67 


proove under de doctor’s care, and got rite smart. An’ oli ! 
my hebenly marster! how he did take to de doctor ! Lub 
no body so much but Miss Evaline. Would hab him go 
home wid him, tellin’ of him he shouldn’t lose (nothin’ by 
it. Deed honey, dat ole man set himself about to make 
dat match ’tween dem two young people. Miss Evaline she 
feel’d grateful to de doctor, and in course liked him some, 
and he growed monsus fond of her. Well, de whole of it 
was, dat dey was married side de marser’s death bed. He 
made de doctor promise to take de name of Garnet, ’cause 
how, he did not want de name to die out; and Miss Eva- 
line was de only one left. 

“ Marse Doctor always was mity solemn, and all de dar- 
keys say he was ’penting of sum sin. Howsumebber, arter 
Marse Frank’s birth he seem a little bit cheerful like, but 
it didn’t lass long, he growed bad agin and wus. Miss Ev- 
aline she got so too, and was all de time pining like ; and 
after little Miss Eva was born she nebber got strong agin 
and stop smilin, den went to sighing till she just pined 
away. Marse Doctor been awful bad ebber since, and 
’deed, honey, he habn’t been out of his room, dat I knows 
of, for sixteen years. He hab dredful times, groaning and 
sayin’ dat life is a burdin. And now honey, de niggers 
say how somebody walks on de long piazze and groans. 
1’de hearn de groans but I nebber dared to look out. Miss 
Eva or Marse Frank always sleeps in de room wid him, to 
try and quiet him when he is so bad. How honey don’t 
you nebber let on I’se told you dis. I’se dun now.” 

“Thank you, Mammy,, you may depend on my silence. 
I am very tired and think I will go to bed,” I replied. 
The travel and long ride had exhausted me considerably, 
and before I had thought much on the story of the Garnet 
family, I was wrapped in sleep, and did not awake until 
next morning, and beheld Mammy standing by my bed- 
side with a cup of delicious coffee, and saying : 


68 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


“ Gracious Massey l How sound you does sleep. A body 
mout run off wid you and not wake you up. Miss Eva’s 
bin up four hours. Marse Frank’s gone long ago, and bref- 
fast bin ready ebber so long.” 

I hastened to dress, and soon joined Eva in the breakfast- 
room. She said her father had passed a pretty quiet night. 

I saw little of her during the days except at meal times. 
I was not at all lonesome, however. I amused myself get- 
ting an insight into plantation life. 

At tea Eva said : 

“ Pearl darling, I can be with you so little, I am fearful 
you will regret your visit. But when Frank returns I shall 
be with you more ; we will take turns, attending to father. 
You will not think hard of it, dear ? ” 

I satisfied the dear girl, and returned to my room quite 
early. 

Mammy made her appearance very soon after, and insist- 
ed on making up a log fire, saying: 

' “Mus do it, missey, keep off de ague. Tis helfy; we 
alays dus it. Den agin it looks cheerful.” 

I had to agree. After being amused some hour or so by 
her humorous and wonderful stories, I began my prepara- 
tions for retiring. I had determined to be on the watch 
that night for the ghost. But how should I hear it ; an 
idea struck me : 

“Mammy,” I said, “you can keep your fire going if 
you choose, but I must have the fresh air. So I shall let 
the window be open a little way.” And so it was arranged. 

I watched and listened, but no sounds came to indi- 
cate the ghost as being near. At length I fell asleep. 
How long I remained so I cannot tell, when I was awak- 
ened by deep, heart-rending groans ! Yes, and slow, meas- 
ured steps under my window. I looked around ; mammy 
was sleeping soundly. After a few moments I became 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


69 


quite calm, and stepping lightly out of the bed, approached 
the window and looked out ! 

Oh horror ! horror ! There truly, as mammy had said, 
walked the ghost ! 

A tall, dark figure, nothing distinctly discernible but 
the long, white hair, flowing from the bowed head, and the 
skeleton hands which were crossed on the breast. I could 
not move or scream ; I was stiff and speechless with terror. 
No mistaking it — a real, true ghost ! I continued to gaze 
until at last it disappeared at the end of the piazza. 

At length I managed to get back to bed, but -there was 
no more sleep for me that night. In the morning I was 
fearful Eva would wonder at my haggard looks, so I feigned 
headache, attributing it to mammy’s hot fire. 

The next night I enquired of mammy where the doctor’s 
room was. 

“ In de room undernefe dis, at de end of de piazza,” she 
answered. 

“ Mammy, I would give any thing to get a look at Eva’s 
father ! Please let me go peep in the window? There can 
be no harm in it, and no one will know it ! ” I said. 

“ Well, honey, deed I dun no what to. say. I cant see no 
harm, cept it’s bery cold and you sure to ketch cold. 
Better wait till a warmer night,” she said. 

I succeeded however in persuading her to let me out and 
show me down. 

“ Well dear, wrap your self up ; here’s a heavy cloak of 
Massa Prank’s, put dis’ round you,” and she wrapped me up 
warmly. 

As I went through the hall I spied a riding cap of Eva’s 
hanging on the rack, and I placed it on my head. 

Mammy directed me to the window, saying she would 
w r ait in the passage for me. I reached the window, and 
listened for a moment before I dared to look in. All was 


TO 


WAS IT A GHOST ? 

quiet. I ventured to look. I first saw only Eva — who was 
reading, with her back towards me. Then I gazed around 
the room. My eyes fell on the side-face of a man seeming- 
ly at least eighty years of age — his hair hanging in long 
silvery locks down a pale, thin face so familiar to me. I 
could hardly help exclaiming, “ Oh, I must know him ! ” 
But where had I seen it before ? I was fascinated, spell- 
bound ; how long I stood, I knew not, — when I was recalled 
to my senses by an almost unearthty scream of terror ! — and 
the old man stood up, pointing to the window ! I darted 
back ; but not before I heard him exclaim : 

“ My God ! look Eva. See, I murdered that man twenty- 
five years ago ! ” 

I could not move from m} 7- position behind the shutters. 
I was paralyzed with terror. I felt sure the ghost was near 
and had been looking over my shoulder in the window; and 
this idea brought action. I flew with more than lightning 
speed up to my room ; and sinking, exhausted, on the floor, 
exclaimed : 

“ Mammy ! the ghost ! ” 

(( Jist as I mite hab knowed. Did ver seed it ? ” 

I explained to her what had happened. She looked very 
uneasy, and said : 

61 Honey, not for yer life let Miss Eva find out yer ben 
down dar and heerd de doctor say dat, case how it would 
make her feel monsus bad. Yer keep ebery bit to yer self. 
Ise spect de ghost was lookin’ ober yer shoulder when he 
sed it. Ise glad it warnt dis chile, case I bin in t’other 
world now, honey.” 

There was but little chance of sleep now. I tossed about 
all night, trying to bring to mind where I had seen that face, 
but all in vain. Hear morning, I fell into uneasy sleep, 
from which I was aroused by Mammy calling to me : 

“ Miss Pearl, honey, Miss Eva’s bin up all de night wid 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


71 


de doctor, and she now send for yer to come. ’Spect he dy- 
ing fast, case how he don’t know nobody ; he bin ravin’ all 
night about de fhce at de winder. De lors, honey, just to 
think ob yer havin’ a dead one lookin’ ober yer shoulder and 
not feel it.” 

I hurried on my wrapper and followed her down to the 
master’s room. She opened the door, and Eva came for- 
ward, took my hand and led me to the bed, saying : 

“ My poor father has suffered terribly all night, and now 
he seems perfectly unconscious to all things around ; and I 
have grown very weak and nervous, and cannot bear to be 
alone ; so I have sent for you.” 

And here she threw her arms around my neck and gave 
vent to her grief. I did not try to stop her. I thought 
better let her weep ; it would relieve her. At last she be- 
came calm, and with my arm supporting her, we sat down 
beside the couch to watch the sufferer. 

I was bending close and trying to catch the incoherent 
words, hoping to gain some clue to his trouble. That face 
— oh ! where had I seen it ? — Hush ! What is he saying ? 

“ Everton, as God hears me, I did not mean to kill you ! 
yhy will you come to me ? — why do you look at me so 
pitying? — Take away your eyes ! — Eva, come stand between 
me and Everton Leston’s eyes ! — Will they never cease to 
haunt me ? ” 

What terrible mysterj' was this ? My father’s name — 
and his eyes haunting the sick man, — what could it mean ? 
I looked at Eva ; her face was convulsed with terror. She 
signed me to leave the room. I went out, and in a few mo- 
ments memory came to my assistance. I sent Mammy to 
stay with the doctor, and say to Miss Eva I must see her in 
my room immediately. 

She was soon with me. Poor child ! these few days of 
watching and suffering had made its impress on her fair face. 


72 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


She hardly looked like the same girl that had returned 
home a week before. I drew her down beside me and 
said : 

“ My darling Eva, I had an irresistible desire to see your 
father, and so I coaxed Mammy to let me go down and peep 
at him last night. I was at the window, and heard him 
when he screamed out to you ; and, listen, my darling, in 
your father’s face I beheld a most familiar one — -the origi- 
nal of a little oil picture that is in my father’s library, and 
I distinctly remember the name written on the back of it, 
Wm. Powers Manning. I clearly remember, on one occa- 
sion, I asked father who it was. And now hear the strang- 
est thing about it : he said that it was the likeness of a very 
dear friend that was drowmed years before* Now, Eva, 
what is the mystery that both think the other dead ? ” 

Her face wore an expression of mingled doubt and hope 
while I was telling her. At the conclusion she exclaimed : 

“ Oh, Pearl, can this be true ? Is there hope ? Is my 
father free from this terrible crime? No, no, it cannot be! 
Ever since I remember, he has been trying to hide from 
some vision of terror ! The servants say that a figure has 
often been seen on the long piazza, and looking in father’s 
window ; he has often called me to see.” 

“ Eva,” I said, rather sternly, “ you must now tell me all 
you know of your father’s story. His life may depend on 
it.” 

“ Yes, yes, I will tell you all. Last night after seeing the 
face at the window, he was fearfully agitated. I tried to 
soothe him. After awhile he became a little calm, and said, 
* My daughter, I would not appear to you more guilty than 
I really am ; therefore, before I die, I must confide to you the 
sorrow that is wearing, yes, torturing my life away. To no 
human have I ever breathed it, not even to your mother. 
My child, that face that I saw at the window was a cousin 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


73 


of mine that I murdered and then sunk his body in the 
river, twenty-five years ago. I was an orphan, and was 
adopted and educated, by uncle. He had only one child. 
This boy and I grew up together and graduated at the same 
time — he as a lawyer, I a physician. We were very much 
attached to each other. At last a trouble came between 
us. We both loved the same girl. It was not long 
before I found out who was the favored one. So, 
after a severe struggle, I made up my mind to leave my 
home and that part of the country, where I should not see 
her or hear of my cousin's happiness. So I made all my 
arrangements. I told my uncle I wanted to travel a little, 
and drawing from him my ten years' savings, amounting to 
about a thousand dollars, I was about bidding adieu to my 
friends, when Everton came and insisted on carrying me 
down to the cars in his boat on the river, instead of in the 
carriage. It was a lovely moonlight evening, and I was 
very glad for a ride on the water. After being out a few 
moments, he commenced to run me a little on mj' having 
loved in vain. lEe was a wild fellow, and seemed never to 
have a serious thought. I hardly know what was said, but 
I became enraged, crazed, and catching up a piece of iron 
lying in the boat, I dealt him a murderous blow. I was 
brought to my senses by seeing him lying dead before me. 
The next thought was of self-preservatio%— -escape from, not 
the punishment, but the disgrace. In a firw moments I had 
decided what to do ; for thoughts are very bright when we 
are in peril. I rowed near the shore, and lifting the body 
from the boat, I laid it on the sandy shore in shallow water, 
as if washed up. Then I threw off my hat into the boat, 
taking from my carpet-bag a sleeping cap to put on. I 
knew that the cars would pass below in about half an hour, 
and stop at the tank to water. I would have time to take 
them. So leaving my bag, overcoat, and everything belong- 


74 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


ing to me, I gained the cars in time. It was quite dark ; 
no one recognized me. I did not take my trunk — that was 
waiting at the station. I then left my homo in New Hamp- 
shire for ever. I felt sure that when they found my cous- 
in’s body the impression would be that mine had sunk from 
the weight that was round my waist — my monej 7 was in a 
belt, and all in coin. The leaving of all baggage would 
strengthen this belief. I travelled South and settled at 
Richmond, rented an. office and put out my sign, Wm. 
Powers — my middle name. Here I met your mother, and 
you know the rest — how I changed my name to hers, at her 
father’s request, instead of her changing hers to mine. 
What a continued life of remorse and torture I have suf- 
fered ! Were it not for you and your brother I would go 
at this late day and proclaim myself a murderer.’ 

“ This is all he told me. Afterward he became feverish 
and wandering all night, like you found him. Oh, Pearl, 
tell me what it is ? what I can do to relieve him ? ” 

“ My dear Eva, cheer up, j^ou shall have a happier Christ- 
mas than ever before. I shall write to my dear father, urg- 
ing him to come here immediately. You, Eva, you go to 
your father, give him his soothing powder, and after he has 
slept, break the ‘ glad tidings ’ to him. Every moment will 
be an age to us now, until his poor, wearied, suffering heart 
shall find rest. Go to him and I will write my letter.” 

I hastily wrote : 

“ Come to me, my dear father. Here in the house with 
me is one you have long supposed in the Spirit World. 
Wm. Powers Manning is dragging out a miserable exist- 
ence, for twenty-five years suffering terribly with the pangs 
of remorse ; for thirteen years he has not been among his 
fellow men. Come, my father, and explain the mystery that 
is torturing his mind and wringing his poor heart, so that 
life is a miserable burden. Be with me on Christmas day.” 


WAS IT A GHOST. 


75 


I finished, and old Uncle Lew. was soon on his way to the 
office. At breakfast Eva told me her father was sleeping 
gently ; so he continued until the afternoon ; he awoke 
much calmer, and Mammy had a nice cup of coffee, muffins 
and broiled chicken waiting for him. She told me he seemed 
to relish it more than he had for a long time. I waited in 
the greatest anxiety to hear from Eva if she had told him, 
and how. It was near night when she came. 

“How is he, does he know ?” I cried out ; but I saw by 
her happy face that “ All was well.” 

“He is asleep again. After he awakes you will go in to 
him. When I succeeded in making it quite plain to him, 
and concluded by telling you had written for your father to 
come to him, he exclaimed : 

“ ‘ Eva, you can pray ; thank God, my daughter, for his 
mercy ! I have never prayed since that fearful, night. I 
have felt so unworthy, so far from God. When your saint- 
ed mother would try to comfort me, and say, ‘ Come unto 
me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you 
rest/ I could not even say, i God help me.’ I felt that 
until I could confess to the world my crime, I could not, I 
dare not, ask help or comfort of him. But now, oh ! my 
child, he has sent this comfort, this peace, in answer to the 
united prayers of you on earth, and your mother in 
heaven/ 

“ I dropped on my knees and thanked Him ; and after 
my prayer was ended, he said, * Amen/ He had been pray- 
ing too; he had approached God, and had not been re- 
pulsed. 

“ His face was almost radiant. He said : 

“ { I feel that God has forgiven me, not for that crime, 
but for want of faith in him — * 

Here we were interrupted by the entrance of Mammy, 
who said. 


76 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


“ Miss Eva, jmur par dun waked up, and want you to cum 
to him ! ” 

“ I will go to him, Pearl dear, and when he is ready to 
see you, I will come, or send for you/’ said Eva, as she 
went out. Mammy remained. I could see she had some- 
thing she was very anxious to tell. As soon as Eva was 
out of hearing, she exclaimed : 

“ Oh, my bressed father ! Miss Pearl, honey, sumthin dun 
cum ober de Doetor, ’deed tis so ! His face, what was all de 
time so dark and ful o’ trubble, looks jest like a shining 
light now for all de world, like he dun been to Hebben. — • 
Dare ! dat his bell ringin now,” and Mammy hurried off. 
Very soon she was back again to say, Eva wanted me to 
come see her father. 

In a few moments more I was standing beside the Doctor, 
my hand clasped .in his. 

What a wonderful change had those few hours, (since I 
last saw him), made. He looked full twenty years 
younger, and the radiant expression on his features, very 
well might suggest the idea to Mammy — “ That he looked 
as if he had been to Heaven.” 

“ Oh ! my child,” he said, “ you are so very much like 
your father was when I saw him last. Sit down beside me, 
my dear. ‘ Oh ! haw wonderful and mysterious are the 
ways of Providence.’ You, dear child, have been the in- 
strument of working out His divine will — His great mercy 
towards such a poor unworthy object as I am. Oh ! Pearl, 
you have been a jewel of inestimable value to me. When 
shall I see } T our father, my dear ? ” 

I told him when, with God’s blessing, father would be 
with us. He was very cheerful, and talked much of his 
youthful days with my father. I remained until quite late, 
in his room, and when I returned to my own, I found 
Mammy almost dying with curiosity and amazement. 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


77 


“ Miss Pearl, honey, do please tell me what has cum 
ober dis house, an all de people in it. Eberybody srailin, 
and I clare to de Lord, ef Miss Eva didn’t cum down stairs 
dis tea time singin. Eus time Ise hearn her, since she 
were a little gal. Ise begin to blieve dat de debbil’s 
chained at last,” she exclaimed, as soon as I was seated. 

I knew how good and worthy she was, and really how 
deeply interested in the happiness of the family. So I 
gave her a brief explanation of the facts; at the conclusion 
of which I witnessed for the first time, Mammy’s, and in- 
deed, most of her race’s manner of expressing their joy, &c. 

“ ’Scuse me, Miss Pearl, but deed I hab to shout a little. 
I hab to tank my bressed Massa for liftin de dark spell 
what’s bin ober dis house so long,” she said. And she be- 
gan singing, jumping, and clapping her hands, and contin- 
ued until she sank, quite exhausted, to the floor. 

The next day, and the intervening ones until Christmas, 
were spent in preparing for a joyous time. The Doctor 
rapidly improved, and we had every hope of his eating his 
Christmas dinner with his family. 

With Cloe’s, the housemaid, and Sinbad’s assistance I 
decked the drawing-room with holly and evergreens, and 
succeeded In divesting it of its usually gloomy appearance, 
and when the blessed day came at last, and we had a large 
hickory fire blazing brightly, and the Doctor seated in his 
crimson armchair beside it, everything looked very cheer- 
ful. Eva and I were close up to the windows listening for 
the first sound of the carriage, at last. 

“1 hear the wheels, they are coming!” exclaimed Eva, 
and in a few minutes more we were out on the porch to 
welcome those so dear to both. After being released from 
my father’s arms, I began a general introduction, when 
father said : 

" Never mind that, daughter. I made my young 


is 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


cousin’s acquaintance at the station, when we were both 
waiting for the carriage, and if I mistake not, this is 
another cousin,” turning and warmly greeting Eva. 

We carried him in to the doctor. They were soon 
clasped in each other’s arms, and “Thank God you are 
living ! ” burst simultaneously from each. 

All eyes were dimmed with tears of joy — all hearts send- 
ing up thanksgiving to the Throne of Mercy. I doubt if 
ever, since the olden time when the Wise Men of the East 
came and found a Saviour was born to the world, there has 
been such a day of deep joy and thankfulness. 

Eva and I stepped out into the dining-room. We folt 
that there must be none to witness or hear their mutual 
explanation. Frank, who had returned, soon followed, and 
I put out my hand and said : 

“ W T here is my Christmas present, Cousin Frank ? ” 

Before he could answer, Eva exclaimed : 

“ Why Frankie ! What is the matter ? You look as 
gloomy as if you had lost every friend in the world ! ” 

“ Not so, my little sister ; but I do not quite fancy the 
title of cousin from Pearl.” 

“ Oh, now I comprehend,” laughingly exclaimed Eva. 
a J ust now I am i de trop.’ ” 

“ Not until I have made my peace by a Christmas offer- 
ing.” And he drew from his pocket a little box, which he 
opened, and placed upon her finger a magnificent solitaire 
diamond, saying : “ I heard you admiring one your friend 
had, so I brought you this.” 

“ Oh ! thank you, darling ! But where is Pearl’s pres- 
ent ? ” 

“ Here it is. But you must not open it until I give you 
leave.” 

And he handed me a much larger box. 

Eva left us ; and, taking my hand, Frank led me to the 
sofa, saying : 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


T9 


“ The occurrences of to-day have forced from me what 
you may, perhaps, think too hasty, and, possibty, presump- 
tuous. But I don’t wish to be your cousiu ; I have hoped 
for something nearer, dearer. I have loved you since I 
first saw you, and have fancied that you were not indiffer- 
ent to me ; but I should not have spoken to you until I 
had been assured of this, had not this newly-discovered 
relationship forced it from me. Tell me, darling, can you 
love me?” 

“ I don’t choose, my dear readers, to tell you just what I 
answered ; but I think Frank was satisfied, for in a little 
while we were kneeling before my father’s feet. 

“ What is this ! going to ask me to give up my Pearl so 
soon ! How can I do this ? ” 

“ Bless them, Everton ; let our children bind us closer to 
each other. Your blessing on them will prove your true 
reconciliation with me.” 

“ God bless you, my children ! But you cannot have 
her just yet, my boy. We will all travel a little ; it will 
restore your father’s health, and in one year, if you are of 
the same mind, then I will give you my Pearl.” 

“ Garnets and Pearls should always be set together, I 
think,” exclaimed Eva, coming up to us, catching the box 
from my hand, and opening it, displaj'ed an elegant set of 
garnets and pearls, saying : 

“ Just think of his presumptuousness ! See here, — 
father, cousin, — look ! ” 

When alone with my father, he told me that he had 
only been stunned by the blow his cousin had dealt him, 
and that the cool water dashing against his head soon 
restored him, and he was able to get home — never mention- 
ing to his father and friends the quarrel between them, 
simply stating that the boat had upset, and he feared Wil- 
liam was lost, as he could not swim with the weight around 


80 


WAS IT A GHOST? 


him. Continued search was made for him — at last all hope 
was given up ; and they all mourned for him as dead. My 
father married, in a few months, my mother — who died at 
my birth. 

We all went and travelled for a year — the trip across the 
ocean greatly benefiting the doctor’s health. We return- 
ed to my own home, where my father gave me to Frank. 

There is no more talk of ghosts at Oak Grove. After 
the doctor’s restoration to health and happiness, he gave 
up the midnight walks on the piazza which had given rise 
to the report amongst the negroes that the place was 
haunted. Mammy said : 

“ She had often heard of people gibbing up de ghost, but 
’deed, dis time, de ghost gib up de doctor.” 

Eva married, two years after her return from Europe, a 
young gentleman of our village ; and she does much to 
comfort my father for my absence, which is only during 
the winter. We spend the summer with him. Frank 
said, a few days ago, “ that the little jewels that are sur- 
rounding me now will put a stop to these frequent northern 
trips; that he intends to write and say to father he must 
come himself this Christmas and see how well the Pearl 
looks now surrounded by little Garnets ! ” 


MERCY.” 


A NEW YEAR’S STORY. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


“ And Judge none lost ; but wait and see, 
With hopeful pity, not disdain ; 

The depth of the abyss may be 
The measure of the height of pain. 
And love and glory that may raise 
This soul to God in after days." 


As the hall door of an elegant mansion on Square, 

the house of Louise Maynard, opened for the departure of 
the exquisite, Clarence Caldwell, it at the same time admit- 
ted the humble seamstress, little Ruth Love. 

A shudder passed through the girl, whose face bore a look 
of unmistakable repugnance as the man brushed past her. 
Hurrying on, she ascended the stairs, entered the sewing- 
room, and began her daily work. 

Louise Maynard came in, looking proud and happy, and 
Ruth’s little fingers were soon busy fitting a dress on the 
fine figure waiting to receive it. 

Frequently a look of impatience flitted over Miss May- 
nard’s face, and at length she said, sharply : 

u You are very slow and dull this morning, Ruth. I am 
completely tired out standing here. You do not seem to 
know what you are about.” 

“ You are right, Miss Louise ; I am scarcely conscious of 
what I am doing. My heart is not in my work. It is 
almost bursting with anxiety; longing, yet scarce daring 
to speak to you.” 




( 81 ) 


82 


MERCI. 


“ To me ! What can you have to say of such impor- 
tance as to agitate you thus? But say on, Buth, and re- 
lieve your heart, if possible.’ 7 

“ Oh, Miss Louise, I want to warn you against Clarence 
Caldwell. He is not a good man. Do not trust him ! ” 

“ Girl, you surely forget who you are, and to whom 
speaking ! This, if not very impertinent, would be truly 
amusing ! In your position, you have scarce the opportu- 
nity to judge of Mr. Caldwell’s worth,’’ said the haughty 
and angry girl. 

“I can. I have. It is from his own language to me 
that I judge him. He is a bad man, Miss. Louise. Oh, 
trust him not ! ” 

“ Mr. Caldwell’s language to the seamstress, quite likely, 
is soipewhat different than he addresses to me. You have 
quite forgotten, girl, our different stations in society.” 

“ I’ve forgotten nothing, Miss Louise ; I remember jmur 
mother’s continual kindness to the orphan seamstress, and 
for her sake I would warn her child. Believe me, the per- 
son disgracing the name of man, who will try to trifle with 
the heart — worse still, the fair fame, the all, of even an 
humble sewing-girl, is not to be trusted by any pure 
woman ; and well may parents regard him with an anxious, 
watchful eye,” said Buth, in a voice quivering with agi- 
tation. 

“ Go, girl ; I have no further need of you;. I will en- 
deavor to supply your place by one. who will know and 
keep her position better. My mother’s kind indulgence has 
turned your brain,” and Louise Maynard swept haughtily 
from the room. 

Many were the speculations relative to the reason of 
Clarence Caldwell’s selecting Louise Maynard to bestovfc*. 
his heart and hand upon, when there were other girls with- 
in his reach of far more beauty and personal attraction 


83 


“me rcy,” 

Louise was not a favorite among her own sex ; she was too 
haughty and cold to be popular. Some said it was not for 
love of Louise that made Clarence so devoted ; but love of 
her father’s gold. Be this as it might, time would soon 
prove. Preparations were going on for a fast-approaching 
wedding-day, ’twas said ; and if this was true, they were 
soon cut short by a dire calamity. The last offices for the 
dead were going on in the home of Louise. Her father’s 
lifeless form was all that remained of him who only a few 
hours before was in apparent health and strength, blessed 
and blessing others with his cheerful, happy spirits. 

Mr. Maynard’s supposed countless wealth proved (as is 
often the case) very much exaggerated. Large liabilities 
were to be met ; and when all the business of settling up 
was concluded, little or nothing remained — barely a meagre 
support for his widow and child. 

Then came reports of neglect and desertion on the part 
of her hitherto devoted lover. A little while longer, and 
busy tongues whispered hints of imprudence, temptation, 
betrayal, trust, and final flight to conceal her misery. 
Louise Maynard had certainly disappeared, none knowing 
her destination. 

Ruth Love’s quiet beauty met the eye of the young min- 
ister officiating as assistant in the parish where Ruth at- 
tended divine worship. He sought her society, and knew 
her worth. He felt sure hers was the heart to enter with 
his into the service of God, and not only be a loving wife, 
but a true helpmate. He wooed and won the gentle girl. 

In comfortless apartments, in a very obscure street sat a 
young woman, busily plying her needle, every feature of the 
pallid, wan face telling plainly that in her sad heart dwelt 
misery and despair. 

Every now and then her eye wandered from the coarse 
fabric on which she was working, to the bed close by, on 


84 “mercy.” 

which seemed to he some object of particular interest. 
Suddenly she stopped and listened, as a clear, distinct knock 
sounded on the outer door. Starting up, she approached, 
and was about opening it, when quickly retracing her steps, 
she went to the bed, and taking carefully up a bundle, disap- 
peared into an adjoining room. Soon returning, and closing 
the door after her, she hastily opened the one opposite, for 
the admittance of the visitor. 

“You here!” she exclaimed in a voice of unmistakable 
annoyance, and surprise. And hastily turning around, she 
left the door, walked into the room, and stood with her 
back toward the unwelcome guest. 

“ Please let me come in, Miss Maynard. I want to see 
you so much. I have so many things to say to you, and it 
is very cold out here,” said a sweet, gentle voice. 

“ No, no. Go your own way, it is widely different from 
mine. And let me alone. You want to tell me of your 
happiness, and taunt me with my misery. Go, go,” was the 
answer in hard, bitter tones. 

“ I must come in, then, without a welcome,” and closing 
the door behind her, she approached her whose face was 
turned away ; passed her arm around, and drew her form 
close to her own, sayiug: 

" Dear Miss Maynard, look at me. Yes, my happiness 
is so great ; I want you to share it with me. Hush ! You 
must not say another word until you have heard me 
through. There, sit down, and let me ! Louise, I am 
going away, very far from all kindred and friends. My 
husband has accepted a call in a distant State, and new 
settlements. He will be often away, I shall be very lonely 
among those strangers. I come here a supplicant. I want 
you to grant me a favor ; one which will make me so thank- 
ful. It' is this. Go with me ! Be my sister, Louise ! ” 

“ An object of charity ! The creature of bounty ! Nev- 
er.” 


MERCY. 


85 


u 




“No, no, my friend and sister, I shall need some one to 
sympathize and care for me, Louise ! And here in your 
loneliness, you need the same. See, dear, we are in this 
equals. We will go into that new country as both equally 
meriting love and respect. All the past we will leave be- 
hind, continued the pleading woman. 

“ We equals ! You with a husband’s sympathy, love and 
respect ! You talk wildly, girl. And what think you he 
would say to this pretty arrangement of yours. Even now 
if he knew where you were, he would censure you.” 

“ Oh ! no, indeed ! I am here with his sanction. It was 
through his means that I found you. He is not only will- 
ing, but anxious, to have you with us. And Louise, there 
is another, who, this very moment, is praying God’s bless- 
ing on my errand. Your mother dear. She knows of this 
visit, and unites her entreaties with mine. Oh ! let me 
return to her, bearing to her poor wounded heart some com- 
fort, some balm to soothe the ceaseless aching. Let me 
say you will come to her, gain her farewell blessing, and 
then go with me, into new scenes. And there she will 
come to see us. Oh ! be sure, God will smile upon you, and 
all will be well again.” 

The hardened heart was melting; the wounded spirit 
yielding, and at last, tears rolled from the hitherto dry, and 
burning eyes. She murmured : 

“ Give me time. I must think. This time to-morrow 
evening, come. God bless you, Eutli. Telfmy mother she 
may see me to-morrow night, or never again in this world. 
Go, now, it is getting late, and this is a bad neighborhood 
for you to be alone.” 

“ My husband is somewhere near ; do not worry. Prom- 
ise me you will not go away ; not try to elude us ? ” 

“ I promise I will meet you here, if I am living, and give 
you the answer ; now, good bye.” 


86 


“MERCY.” 

Four years have passed. In the western city of N , 

now so rapidly increasing in wealth and importance, was 
the home of Key. William Keese, in which, sharing equally 
with himself and wife the love and respect of the commun- 
ity, was Louise Maynard, far more attractive in appear- 
ance, more lovely in character, than ever before. Her pale 
face wore an expression so gentle, so sadly sweet, that we 
recognize it as the result only of a heart purified by sor- 
row. 

She had never regretted her decision to seek peace and 
protection, in that home far away from the scene of her 
misery. And her loving-hearted friend, with her noble- 
minded husband, ever blessed the day which gave them such 
a source of comfort as Louise had proved. Deep, sincere 
gratitude filled her heart, and in every way she sought to 
prove it. 

The impression had gotten abroad that Louise was a 
widow. What gave rise to this no one knew, save it might 
have been the deep sable robes she wore for her father’s 
memory. This idea was finally dispelled by Kuth, who, on 
' one occasion, when an acquaintance expressed the surprise 
u that her lovely friend should remain so long a widow,” 
answered: “ Louise is not a widow — far worse. She had 
been deserted by him who should have loved, honored and 
protected her.” 

Kuth felt that she had spoken the truth, and her visitor 
went off and- confidently asserted that Miss Maynard was a 
deserted wife ; and as such she received an increased show 
of kindness and sympathy from all who knew her. 

New Year’s morn dawned, smiling on the world. The 
minister’s little home was filled with joy and gratitude. 
That bright day all was health and happiness. It had not 
been so lately. For long days and weary nights they had 
watched over beds on which lay little suffering forms so 


87 


“ MERCY.” 

dear to all. Now that was past, and the household darlings 
were making the house merry again with their sweet lisp- 
ing voices. 

Ruth sat holding in her arms, and pressing to her heart, 
her younger child, while playing around her feet was an- 
other little one. Frequently she raised her eyes to the 
clock on the mantel, and then they wandered towards 
Louise, who stood gazing on the frolics of a little child. 
Ruth had something evidently on her mind, trembling on 
her lips for utterance. Again she looked at Louise : this 
time she saw, standing in the sad eye, one large pearly 
drop ; the quivering lids drooped, and the tear rolled slowly 
down the pale cheek and rested on the trembling bosom. 
Ruth felt this was an opportunity she must not lose. Ris- 
ing from her chair, still clasping the infant boy in her arms, 
she approached her companion. Placing her hand quietly 
on her shoulder, she said : 

“ Louise, dear friend and lister, was there not once a 
little one who had the same claim on your love as this dar- 
ling ? Is not your heart this moment yearning, aching for 
that little form that a mother’s arm may clasp once more ? 
Speak, Louise, relieve your poor heart. Tell your friend ? ” 

“ Oh ! do you want to drive me mad ? You know not 
what terribly cruel blows you are dealing my breaking heart. 
For mercy’s sake cease ! ” sobbed forth the miserable 
woman. 

“Nay, nay, Louise, ’tis to comfort you, to prepare you for 
a great joy I speak — Mercy is coming to you. Listen, 
dear : — That day so long ago, when I came and found you 
in such deep grief, while I was waiting for you to open the 
door I glanced through the window and saw jmur hurried 
action — I saw you go into the adjoining room, bearing so 
carefully a little roll of flannel — I surmised the truth ; and 
afterwards I thought the reason for your delay in giving me 


88 “MERCY.” 

an answer was most probably to make some arrangement 
for that little child. I told this idea to my husband. He 
directly formed a plan for getting the care of your child. 
It was through his means that the kind lady came to you 
next morning begging for the little one — promising to re- 
store it to you whenever you should ask it. My husband 
placed the little one with those in whom he had perfect con- 
fidence, and regularly since has he heard from it. Before 
we left our old home he went and baptized your little child. 
He has often told me that the necessity of selecting a 
name never entered his mind until the very moment it was 
required, and then the thought came how much mercy would 
both that little child and the absent mother need, as well 
from earthly friends as Heavenly Father. So he called the 
little girl 1 Mercy/ • 

“Your loving care, your devotion to our little darling, 
has not gone unnoticed, Louise. We have seen it all, and 
appreciated it truly. More than this, our parent hearts 
have felt your sorrow. What should we do if deprived of 
our blessings? Louise, look up! you are about to have 
your reward. William has gone to the depot to return with 
your child. To brin g your Mercy ! ” 

Even while she was speaking a carriage rolled swiftly up 
to the door, and when she ceased her husband was before 
her bearing in his arms a bright-looking little girl, which, 
placing in the outstretched arms waiting to receive her, he 
said : 

“Welcome your child, Louise ! A Hew Year’s offering 
which I feel sure will fill the aching void so long existing 
in your heart. Take her, and be happy.” 

Louise had not uttered one word from the time when 
Ruth’s words had conveyed to her mind the deep joy com- 
ing to her. And even when clasping her child to her 
breast, her heart almost bursting with gratitude, her lips 


MERCY. 


89 


cc 




were powerless to speak. Her friends needed no words of 
thanks. They were content in the happiness they had be- 
stowed. Late in the day, when the little ones were play- 
ing merrily in an adjoining room, Louise found words to 
relieve her overflowing heart, and tell of the deep gratitude 
she felt towards God and those dear friends whose efforts in 
her behalf He had so fully blessed.” 

Before the rays of that New Year’s sun had faded into 
twilight, the minister’s home was again the scene of an 
occurrence of as deep interest and thrilling emotion to 
Louise Maynard as the one we have just witnessed. Most 

of the inhabitants of N will remember the dreadful 

scene of horror and suffering which occurred on that day, 
sending many souls so suddenly before their Maker, and 
leaving more to writhe in agony of bodily suffering. 

It was a terrible railroad accident, occurring in the vicin- 
ity. Every house near by was filled with the sufferers. 
Those under the charge of William Reese were all cared 
for and made as comfortable as possible, and Ruth had just 
seated herself for a few moments’ rest, when Louise came 
forward ; her usually pale face had grown paler ; with com- 
pressed lips and wild eye she drew Ruth with her into the 
next room, and there noiselessly approaching an appar- 
ently lifeless form, she pointed. 

Ruth gazed inquiringly a moment, then whispered : 
“ Clarence Caldwell ! #h, God ! how mysterious are thy 

ways ! ” and hurrying out she found and told to her hus- 
band the discovery thej’’ had made. 

Frequently Louise flitted in and hovered near, watching 
the suffering man, until she noticed returning conscious- 
ness, then she withdrew to remain until summoned to the 
side of, as they all believed, a dying man. 

“ Come, Louise, he has recognized and is calling for 
you,” said Wm. Reese. 


90 


“MERCY.” 

“ No, no, I can not — I will not go,” she said. 

11 Well, we are going to move his cot into this room ; he 
will be more quiet, more private. You will see him here.” 

“ No— I wish not to see him at all. While he lay sense- 
less I wished to attend him ; but not now— no, no.” 

“ Louise, the physician says he may live, but most likely 
for a few hours only. He believes him bleeding internally, 
and if so, there is no hope. You will— you must see him,” 
urged her friend. 

They bore the crushed and bleeding form of Clarence 
Caldwell in. 

Louise stood statue-like, cold, immovable, speechless. 
All withdrew save Ruth, who remained in a remote part of 
the room. 

“ Forgive, oh, forgive, Louise ! ” murmured the sufferer, 
in scarcely audible tones. 

Still she moved not, breathed forth no word, even to tell 
she had heard his pleading voide. 

“ Louise, I am dying. Forgive ! Speak one word only 
— one of forgiveness ! God knows how truly I repent that 
dreadful wrong. Listen, Louise : I would repair the past. 
Say you forgive ; give me the djdng consolation of having 
done justice even at this late hour. Speak — speak ! ” 

“ Dying you repent ; living you would regret that in the 
hour of weakness you yielded to the right. No, no ! You 
deceived me in those days of love and trust ; now I trust 
no more,” said Louise, speaking then in hard, bitter tones. 

A deep groan escaped from the miserable man. Ruth 
crept softly from the room. A bright, happy idea entered? 
her mind. Soon returning, she bore in her arms the little 
child. Approaching, she held her before the mother’s eye 
— hoping the influence of Mercy would soften the hardened 
heart. 

The sinking man looked up eagerly, inquiringly into 


“mercy.” 91 

Louise’s eyes — then towards the gentle Ruth, who, under- 
standing the anxious gaze, answered : 

“ Yes, your child it is.” 

He made a feeble attempt to raise his arms, hut they 
were powerless. Ruth knelt and placed the little one be- 
side the father’s bosom. The child was not frightened at 
the pallid, almost ghastly features. She was tired and 
sleepy, and passing her little arms around his neck, nestled 
her sweet head close up to his, closed her eyes, and seemed 
perfectly satisfied and happy. Was not that the most ap- 
pealing and forcible argument that could have been used ? 

Still unforgiving, unyielding Louise stood, and put 
forth her hands as if to remove the child, when the feeble 
voice whispered : 

“ Nay, let her be. She trusts me ; oh, why will not 
you ? Louise, for your child’s sake, forgive. Let her bear 
her father’s name. Do you not see I am dying ! Speak 
quick, quick, or you will be too late to do your child jus- 
tice ! ” 

“ Oh ! yes for Mercy’s sake,” pleaded Ruth. 

“ Then for Mercy’s sake it is,” answered Louise, and she 
sank weeping beside the deeply penitent man. 

In the solemn hour of that New Year’s midnight, the 
deep earnest voice of William Reese pronounced them man 
and wife. 

Contrary to all ideas Clarence Caldwell lived on, and dur- 
ing those long hours of suffering, he learned for the first 
time what love truly was — and fervently thanked God for 
the blessed boon of a patient, loving (as she gradually grew 
to be) wife. A few weeks more and when he grew able to 
be supported by Louise’s tender arms out on the pleasant 
portico, they were all gladdened by the presence of Mrs. 
Maynard, William Reese’s kind nature procuring this addi- 
tional joy for the daughter’s grateful heart. For some 


92 


“mercy.” 

years they all remained in that Western home, hut now at 
this time they are back again, both families in their old 

home, the city of P . No one enjoys more the love 

and respect of their neighbors than Clarence and Mrs. 
Caldwell. Occasionally an evil tongue finds courage to 
whisper forth a reproach of “ by gone days,” but it is 
crushed back by the many and loud blessings coming from 
those they have comforted. 

And now one word to those who have erred — step forth 
from the dark path — seek aid and forgiveness. Be sure 
that there is an ear ever ready to hear the first prayer for 
help. A heart into which you can pour your sorrow and 
find comfort. In Heaven your Father is waiting your re- 
turn. Believe also that on earth there are those whose 
hearts have suffered with you, for you. They are ready 
with aid and sympathy to welcome you on to the path of 
virtue and peace. For the sake of the mother who bore 
you, the gray-headed father yearning to receive you, the 
sister who so fondly loved you, come on ! Come back to 
love and God. 

And you, my county women — look about you ! 

You, fond proud mother, who has reared to man and 
.womanhood, honorable sons and virtuous daughters, cast 
your eye around ! See if there is not within your reach a 
mother not so fortunate as you, perhaps you can help her in 
her sorrow, for those loved ones who have fallen ! 

The young wife blessed in her husband’s love, sheltered 
by his strong, protecting arm, may find within her sphere 
of action one poor desolate heart who has trusted in finding 
all you have won, and been so cruelly deceived. Give her 
your sympathy at least. 

Maidens, young and pure, ye who have bloomed and 
been fondly nurtured under the holy influence of pious, 
faithful mothers, see if you cannot find one who, having 


MERCY. 


93 


<( 


>» 


been denied all that has blessed you, has been tempted 
and fallen ! Help her to rise again. One gentle word — 
one kind action may save her. It will not dim your purity, 
but possibly brighten her dreariness. 

And finally — to you, happy, hopeful young mothers, sur- 
rounded by your joyous innocent children, be not over con- 
fident in the blessing these little ones may prove. See the 
sorrow, the sad disappointment of your neighbor, once as 
hopeful and happy as you. Give her your assistance and 
comfort as you best can. Help her draw home again her 
erring ones. Remember your days of darkness may come. 
Merit God’s blessing on your little ones by your kind ac- 
tions to the suffering. One and all — let not this coming 
New Year pass out without our having the blessed assur- 
ance in our bosom of having at least brought back one 
stray heart to its Creator — saved one soul from final 
destruction ! 


ESTELLE’S REYENGE. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


*' The fairest action of our human life 
Is scorning to revenge an injury; 

For who forgives without a further strife, 

His adversary’s heart to him doth tie ; 

And ’tis a finer conquest, truly said. 

To win the heart than overwhelm the head.” 


Estelle Campbell was the belle of the factory girls. 
None disputed that position with her. Of the many em- 
ployed in the establishment of Whitwell & Co., all agreed 
and yielded willingly the palm of beauty and grace to her. 

She was respected by her employers, and loved by her 
companions, save one Mena Morris. This girl had no pre- 
tension to beauty. She did not care to rival Estelle in her 
acknowledged position ; she was welcome to all and every- 
thing, except the love of young George Whitwell, the 
young lord as the girls called him. Mena loved him. 
Against all hope she saw his preference for Estelle, yet 
loved on with a determination to win him from her rival. 
She was very agreeable in manner — bright, cheerful, witty ; 
it was impossible not to linger and listen to her sparkling 
fun and graphic descriptions. 

George Whitwell had paid her considerable attention on 
her entry into the establishment. She was something dif- 
ferent from the other girls, and then rumor said that she 
had an old miser uncle immensely wealthy, and she might 
be the heiress to vast possessions if the old man did not do- 
nate them to some one else. 

Eor some time he wavered between these two, unwilling 

( 94 ) 


estelle’s revenge. 


95 


to admit even to himself the growing interest he felt for 
Estelle — impossible for him to marry her. She was the 
sole support of her widowed mother, with no prospect ahead. 
In truth, he must admit that she was a fortune in herself to 
any man ; hut he was one of seven children, and could ex- 
pect little or nothing from his father. 

Prudence would suggest that if Mena should come in 
possession of the old miser’s wealth, it would help him im- 
mensly ; besides, Mena was very attractive and very fond 
of him, and no doubt he would be very comfortable, if not 
supremely happy. And so he determined to close his heart 
against this first pure affection, and blot out, if possible, 
the beautiful image from his mind. 

A few days after this, his determination was put to a 
speedy flight, on overhearing a conversation between his 
parents to the effect that Mr. Mason, the moneyed man of 
the firm — the old bachelor who had boasted he had never 
loved any woman save his mother — had inquired of Mr. 
Whitwell if there was any serious intention on his son’s 
part respecting Estelle ? that he admired the young lady 
very much, and, in fact, had pretty much made up his 
mind to ask her to become Mrs. Mason. 

In a moment he knew how much he loved. Estelle the 
wife of any one else ? Never ! He would go immediately 
and tell her what she was to him \ and, if possible, win her 
consent to be his. 

And so it was, Estelle engaged herself to him. He soon 
found out that beneath that dignified, reserved exterior, there 
breathed a heart glowing with the warmest, most devoted 
love, all centred in him. He had won her first pure maiden 
love. 

George was very devoted to his lady-love, and urged a 
speedy union, saying, 

“ My darling Stella, I shall never feel sure of you until 


96 


ESTELLE’S revenge. 


you are truly my own,” and added laughingly, u I shall he 
in constant dread of old Mason’s gold dazzling my dar- 
ling’s eyes. Only think of what you are losing, by giving 
yourself to me. I have nothing but my true heart and 
strong arm to offer you.” 

“ Oh George, do not talk so even in jest. You cannot 
doubt me. I might say the same to you in regard to 
Mena ; it was very plain, she at one time seemed very 
fond of you : now even, you very often linger near her ; yet 
I do not doubt you for a moment. I trust you even with 
her , and I well know all the time, how very fascinating she 
is. Indeed, at times, I really envy her in the possession of 
such a flow of good spirits. A day or so after our engage- 
ment became known, I thought she seemed a little depres- 
sed ; hut in a few days, she was again the same bright, 
laughing girl. With me, how very different. If I receive 
a wound, or sorrow, it seems to sink deeper and deeper into 
my heart. 

“ If it were possible for you to desert me,” she one day 
said, “ I should ” 

“ Die ? ” he asked, as she paused. 

“ No ! Live for revenge ! ” she whispered, hoarsely. 

A chill crept over him, he thought it rather uncomforta- 
ble to be loved thus. 

In a moment more, she was the same gentle, loving girl 
again, and said : 

“ How foolish for us to talk thus. We have full confi- 
dence, judging each other by ourselves.” 

Mena never for a moment relaxed her arts to captivate 
this man, to whom she had given, unsought, her heart. She 
had a very strong, determined will. 

The time appointed for the wedding was fast approach- 
ing. Yet she did not despair. She would continue to 
meet him every day, and hold him spell-hound for a time. 


estelle’s revenge. 97 

Fortune came to help her. The old miser was dead, died 
suddenly in the street ; and Mena Morris became the sole 
inheritor of his immense riches. 

; T\vas the wedding morn. Happy, hopeful, in her blush- 
ing loveliness, waited Estelle. 

A few of her companions were the only guests. It was 
to be a very quiet affair. She had neither means, nor the 
will to have it otherwise. 

The hour has come, but what detains George? 

A carriage drives rapidly up and stops. 

“ Oh ! here he is, and his folks with him. I see his fa- 
ther, ” exclaimed her bridesmaid. 

Old Mr. Whitwell entered alone. Approaching the 
blushing girl he exclaimed : 

“My poor child! how can I tell you? How can you 
bear the dreadful news I bring you ? ” 

“ George — ill — dying — What is it ? Tell me, quick, let 
me go to him,” gasped forth the terror-stricken girl. 

“ Better so, dead to you — listen, child, call up your wo- 
man’s pride ! he is unworth}' - of you — he is now the hus- 
band of another. Married to Mena Morris, and gone to 
Hew York early this morning,” said the father. 

One heart-rending sob of agony burst from the white lips, 
and she sank like a broken lily. 

Friends gathered round with hearts filled with sorrow 
and sympathy. Yet no words passed the lips of any, the 
eyes only expressing what they felt for her. They dare not 
speak — what could they say ? 

In an hour she arose from the couch, on which they had 
laid the loving girl, a cold, hard, stricken woman. 

Thanking them for their kindness, she dismissed her 
friends — saying to old Mr. Whitwell : 

“ Do not look so sad — be sure, I shall not sink under this 
blow, I have something still to live for.” 

6 


98 fstelle’s revenge. 

The old gentleman went home much relieved — thinking 
she alluded to her mother ; and said to his wife : 

u Oh, she is a good girl — none of your sentimental, die- 
away sort.” 

Five years have passed away. Each year adding to the 
worldly good of George Whitwell — truly, time has dealt 
kindly with him. Is he happy ? Yes — not troubled with 
a very sensitive or tender conscience, he goes on, rejoicing 
in his luxurious home. 

Occasionally, a vision of the beautiful Estelle would 
come before him — a passing sigh of regret, perchance, 
would escape him — but it was soon lost in visions of gold 
and gain. 

’Tis the fourth birthday of his only child — his boy, the 
idol of the household. 

’Twas twilight, he sat in his library, listening to the peals 
of childish glee from the adjoining room. Little Harry is 
entertaining his friends. 

Why is it, that now his mind goes back to the days of 
his love for Estelle ? Visions of the cosy little sitting-room 
in the widow’s home, of his beautiful, gentle love, sitting 
with warm, soft hands clasped in his, of her beaming look 
of hope and joy, when he saw her the last time — the eve of 
his marriage — are before him. 

The last ray of light has stolen out through the heavy 
curtains. The fire burns low in the grate, throwing flick- 
ering gleams of light through the room. Darker and 
darker it becomes, but there arose a still clearer vision. No 
longer the gentle girl stands before his 11 mind’s eye.” 
’Tis the flashing eye, with intense gaze bent on bim j com- 
pressed lips, which whispered in deep, bitter tones : 

“ I would live for Revenge ! ” 

“ A chill crept over him ; he started from his arm-chair. 
How long he had sat thus he knew not. The sound of joy 


estelle’s revenge 1 . 


99 


Lad ceased in the next room. Lighting the gas and touch- 
ing the silver hell, he sinks again into his chair. 

A servant enters. 

“ Have the children all gone ? Where is Harry ? ” ho 
demanded. 

“Yes, sir; and little Harry went with them to see the 
circus-car, with the band playing. I expect he will be in 
directly ; his nurse is with him,” answered the man. 

An hour passed, and then came in the terrified nurse. 

“ Harry was gone — lost in the crowd ; she had hunted 
everywhere, but could not find him.” 

I will pass oyer the terrible grief of the parents. The 
services of the police and most celebrated detectives were 
engaged ; rewards offered ; everything that love and wealth 
could do proved useless. He was gone. 

Months passed on, and again came the birthday of their 
darling. All was gloom now. Misfortune had continued 
her attendance on the miserable man. Speculations had 
failed, and the riches for which he had bartered his happi- 
ness was dwindling fast away. But what cared he — only 
give him his boy back, and he would willingly — yes, gladly 
— toil, if necessary, for support. 

A ring at the hall-door — a servant entered, and said : 

“ The post-man, sir.” 

And, handing a delicate little envelope, withdrew. 

He gazed upon the writing. 

“ Surely it was very, very familiar ; never but one wrote 
his name thus.” 

So, tearing it hastily open, he read simply these words : 

“ I would live for revenge.” 

But oh, how much more it said to him ! 

“ Estelle, Estelle, you have been avenged,” he cried. 

Starting up, he was about to go and put this writing in 
Mena’s hands. He hesitated. She had never been his 
comforter — never shared his sorrows. 


100 


estelle’s revenge. 


Distrust dwelt within them. She never felt sure of the 
man who had trifled with the heart of a sister woman, even 
for her love. And he, at times, felt an almost shrinking 
from her who, with numberless acts and wiles, had induced 
him to flee from the path of honor. However, whilst their 
little darling was with them, they had something to unite 
their love, to warm their icy hearts. Little arms encircling 
each neck in one loving embrace, made them forget for the 
time, that they were not “ all the world to each other.” 

Again he consulted and engaged the most celebrated de- 
tectives. Enquiries were made of Estelle in her native town, 
to the effect that after her mother’s death she had gone to 
Philadelphia to live with a distant relative. 

She was traced there, and found engaged in the fancy 
dress-making and costume establishment of her relative, 
and had not been absent from there for three years, and 
bore the highest character. So again all was dark. Noth- 
ing except the little note, to induce suspicion towards the 
injured woman. 

Driven almost to desperation, he determined to find Es- 
telle, accuse her, and entreat of her to give him his boy. 
<£ She must relent when she sees the miserable wreck I am. 
Her revenge will surely be complete,” he said. He went, 
found her friends, and learned she had married some 
months before and gone to Europe. 

His last hope was wrecked. He sought to drown his 
sorrow in the wine-cup — to retrieve his fallen fortunes by 
the “ dice-box ; ” and in two years after the loss of his 
child, he was seldom freed from intoxication. 

He subsisted entirely on the sums obtained by his wife, 
from the sale of one piece after another of the costly jew- 
els and elegant apparel. 

Again we see him sitting alone in the twilight. His 
eyes wandering over the almost comfortless room. His 


estelle’s revenge. 101 

brain is clearer than usual — a deep groan escapes from 
him, and he exclaims : 

“ Why should I not end, end this miserable existence ? 
I am a curse to myself, a burden to the woman I have re- 
duced to poverty — yes, yes, it will be a relief to Mena, and 
when Estelle hears of my lost life and miserable 1 winding 
up,’ will she not give one sigh of regret ? Mena will not 
be back for a couple of hours, she said, and I can be at 
rest before she returns.” 

He sank in his chair and taking from his vest a' small 
phial, he gazed for a moment on it, whispered a few words 
— perhaps a prayer for mercy — and placed it to his lips. 
He hesitates — starts forward — “ Ah ! yes, she comes, a 
vision of Estelle.” Hot the bitter, revengeful girl, but 
soft, gentle, smiling. With a look of deep sympathy, she 
puts forth her hand and draws away the fatal phial — no, 
? tis no vision — ’tis herself — living, breathing, speaking !” 

“ Let there be peace between us, George Whitwell,” she 
said, softly. 

“ You are satisfied, you relent ; see what you have made 
me ; ” he bitterly said, “ but give me back my boy and I 
will forgive you.” 

“ George Whitwell, as I hope for mercy and forgiveness 
from Heaven I did not steal your child, neither had I any- 
thing to do with it ” — she said. 

“ The note ! The note ! you sent me on his birth day ; 
you cannot deny that ” — he groaned forth. 

“ Ho, of that I am guilty ; a spirit of evil, induced me 
to do it. I knew of your loss, and had read an account of 
his being stolen on his birth-day — I was hard and wicked, 
and thought to give you an additional pang of agony, by 
inducing you to believe I was the cause of your sorrow,” 
she said. 


102 


esteile’s revenge. 


t( Why then have you come to me to-night ? Why pro- 
long my hours of misery ? ” he asked. 

“ Thank God for his mercy in sending me in time to 
save not only your life, but your soul. Did I not say I 
came to bring you peace ? Listen — I have a story to tell 
you.” 

“You have heard, after my mother’s death, I went to 
Philadelphia, and engaged in the Costume business with a 
distant relative. 

“ While thus engaged I was thrown in much with many 
persons belonging to the stage and circus companies. My 
poor pale face met with many admirers. I had love for 
none. My heart was, they said, a marble heart. 

“ One, more determined than the rest, pursued me. 
Each year on the annual visit of the company, he would re- 
turn to me. He was different from the rest of his class. 
His perseverance I could but admire. Each time, when I 
would send him off without one word of hope, he would 
say : 

“ 1 While there is life there is hope for me — if you love 
no one else.’ 

“ A few days before I sent you that cruel note I had 
been with a servant, who was sent for me to get up a new 
dress for one of the female members of the circus. It was 
wanted that evening. I hurried up to the room, followed 
by the servant, and went in without knocking. I thought 
I noticed an embarrassment among the occupants, but it 
soon passed off. I had hardly seated myself, when Made- 
moiselle B. excused herself, she said, for a few moments, 
and taking the hand of a little girl, was about leaving the 
room. 

“I caught a glimpse of the child’s face ; in a second the 
past rushed before me. The child’s face was a miniature 
likeness of you. 


estelle’s revenge. 103 

" I got through my work, and returned home. I felt 
perfectly sure it was your child. 

“ The next idea that took possession of me was to he 
near the child. I loved the little one the moment I gazed 
in the brown eyes. 

“ I determined to marry the man who had wooed me so 
often. 

“ I told him of the past, and promised him only a poor 
return for his devotion. I knew he was true and good. 

“We went to Europe. Every day I became more at- 
tached to little Clarice, as they called the child. She was 
the .pride of the company, so apt and so graceful. She was 
claimed by Master Rudolph, the principal rope-dancer. I 
had been with the company a year when I became a mother. 
God blessed me with a little girl. As the little head nest- 
led close to my breast, a strange warmth entered, melting 
the ice that had surrounded my heart so long. Yes ; my 
heart glowed again with love. I knew then what Mena 
must have suffered in the loss of her little one. 

“As I gazed on the eyes which looked into mine, I 
thought they were wondering at my hard, wicked heart. 
My eyes grew dim ; I shed the first tears for many years. 
I knelt and prayed to God for forgiveness for the past, and 
to make me worthy of the precious boon intrusted to my 
care. 

“ I arose a changed woman. I thought my baby’s eyes 
had lost their wondering gaze, and now looked satisfied and 
loving. 

“ Oh ! thank God for little children. They soften the 
heart, they bring forth all the purer feelings of our nature, 
they draw us near our Maker. I told my husband all my 
suspicions. That the little Clarice was your son. I gained 
his consent to help me to gain the truth, and if possible 
restore him to you. He knew nothing whatever of the 


104 


estelle’s revenge. 


child’s entry there. He was told she belonged to Master 
Rudolph, and thought it all true. 

“I had gained considerable influence with many of the 
company — particularly Rudolph. He had been very ill at 
one time. I nursed him ; and he fancied I had saved his 
life. My husband thought I had better appeal directly to 
him, tell him I knew the child, and so on. 

“ This I did. At last he admitted the way he obtained 
him. He was bribed by the master of the company, and 
received five hundred dollars. The beauty and activity of 
the boy had met the eye of the bad man, and he knew there 
was a fortune in him. I pleaded long for the child. I led 
his mind back to his own childhood, and his dead mother. 
T conquered. 

“ He would do his best for me. But how to get over the 
matter. He must have time to arrange it. 

“ But Heaven willed a speedy decision. There was ter- 
ror in the circus camp that night. Master Rudolph had re- 
ceived a fatal injury and was dying. I was sent for. I 
knew what he wanted. I immediately sent for an Ameri- 
can clergyman, and proceeded to the dying man. He 
caught my hand, and drew me down close to his side, and 
whispered : 

" ‘ Is there any need of exposure ? I will him and every- 
thing I have to you, to do with as you choose. Will that 
do?’ 

“ I consulted with my husband ; he said it would be all 
that would be necessary. 

“ The minister wrote the will. It was signed, and duly 
witnessed. In a few hours the repentant man had passed 
from earth. We were in France at the time. My husband 
finished his engagement, and bid adieu to the life he was 
never satisfied with, and we hastened to our native land.” 


estelle’s kevenge. 105 

“Bat my child ! Where, oh, where is he ? ” burst from 
the father’s lips. 

“ Wait,” she said, and gliding from the room, she soon 
returned, holding by the hand little Harry. 

The little one seemed bewildered by the caresses bestowed 
upon him. He gazed long and earnestly on the joyous face 
of the man clasping him so tightly. He seemed struggling 
hard to recall something. 

Another figure enters. The boy’s eyes expand, the little 
bosom heaves, up go the little hands, and “Mamma!” 
bursts from his lips. He clung for a moment to her, then 
returning, said : 

“ I know Papa ! ” 

The happy parents, lost in joy over their returned treas- 
ure, had not missed Estelle. She had gone as quietly as she 
came. 

George rushed out to find her, and pour into her ears his 
words of deep thankfulness. But she was gone ; he never 
saw her again. Returning, he again clasped his boy to his 
breast, when the boy exclaimed : 

“ Oh ! don’t, papa, it hurts — — ” 

“ What hurts, my darling ? ” he asked. 

“ The box in my bosom ; Estelle put it there,” and he 
drew it forth. 

His father, opening it, found some trinkets, presents to 
the child, and a draft on a Hew York bank for five thousand 
dollars, payable to George Whitwell, and a little slip of pa- 
per, saying : 

“ The amount bequeathed to Harry Whitwell by Ru- 
dolph Ferarer.” 

A little note saying : 

“ I have brought you peace ; let it enter your hearts. 
You both love your child. Love one another.” 

The little arms clasped them both in one loving embrace. 


106 


estelle’s revenge. 


“We will begin life anew, my wife,” solemnly spoke the 
father, kneeling, passing his arm around her, and drawing 
her down beside him, “ by thanking God for his wondrous 
kindness, asking forgiveness for the past, help for the future, 
and above all, blessings upon her, whose revenge will surely 
meet the approval of Heaven.” 


RETALIATION. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


Teach me to feel another’s woe, , 

To hide the fault I see ; 

That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me.— P ope. 

“ Listen, Mr. Marbury ! Let me try to prove to you I 
am not so guilty as you think.” 

“ 1 know, of course not ; no gentleman intends to be dis- 
honest, but it is to be regretted that public opinion will not 
see it in that light,” replied the junior partner of an exten- 
sive mercantile firm in the city of notions. 

" Too true ; if you, knowing me for the last ten years, 
will not believe me, how can I expect ought else from 
strangers. Here I have been, under your eye, with the 
charge of the books for this long time, and never have 
failed to give entire satisfaction to all, until now. If you 
had not discovered this, I should have been able to replace 
the amount before the end of the year. I know now that 
I did wrong ; but in the frenzy of my despair I did not 
think it wrong. Mr. Marbury, have mercy ! do not expose 
me to the firm ! Only keep this knowledge you have 
gained until January, then, if I have not returned the 
amount, with interest, I will not ask for further forbear- 
ance,” pleaded the young man. 

u Everett Morse, it matters little what I believe. I care 
not whether you are innocent or guilty. Fate has thrown 
you in my power, and I glory in it. I have no love for you. 
Years ago you crossed my path, and have almost, if not en- 

( 107 ) 


108 


RETALIATION. 


tirely, blasted all ray hopes of happiness. Clara Dayton 
smiled on me , until she met you. Since then you have oc- 
cupied the position I had hoped to gain. Promise to leave 
town, to resign all hopes of Clara’s hand, and I will have 
mercy. Hear me out : I will give you as much time as you 
wish, to return the money, and will also make an arrange- 
ment to send you to Europe, on business for the firm. I 
had intended going myself, but this affair has changed my 
plans somewhat. Now, sir, you have my answer. You 
must either conclude to give up your ‘ lady-love/ or stand 
before the world a felon.” 

“ Mercy ! Mr: Marbury, is this mercy ? Oh, heaven 
pity me ! How can I give her up ! You do not mean it ! 99 

“ When Clara Dayton hears the man who has sought her 
love stands before the world branded with dishonesty, she 
will most likely release you from this task. It will be a 
severe blow to her proud nature.” 

“ She will never believe it. I will go to her, and tell her 
all. Mr. Marbury let me tell you how I was so sorely 
tempted, and yielded. You have heard that when my 
father died, he left his affairs very much embarrassed. 
The old homestead was mortgaged. This has been a great 
grief to my mother. She thought of losing this home, 
most valuable for the loved associations connected with it. 
You know, too, that my brother and I have been trying to 
redeem this property. The last note was due, I could not 
meet the payment. This has been a trying year to me. 
My mother’s illness has very much increased my expenses ; 
then, worse still, my brother’s misfortune in breaking his 
right arm, has of course prevented his attending to his en- 
graving. So the whole burden has been on me. I felt 
sure that as soon as Abbott could return to his work, I 
should be able to return the loan, as I considered it. Fatal 
mistake ! I now see that any swerving from the right path 


RETALIATION. 


109 


is certain to bring its punishment. But will you not, for 
the sake of my poor widowed mother, spare me ? It will 
kill her to hear I am even suspected of dishonesty, she is so 
feeble now. Do not demand this terrible sacrifice of me. 
Be just ! be generous ! be merciful ! ” 

“ ’Tis useless, sir. I have told you on what terms I 
can treat with you. I love Clara more than my own life, 
and cannot relinquish the chance of winning her. It will 
be impossible for you to remove the suspicion that will fol- 
low you. The fact of your employer’s want of confidence 
in you will be sufficient to condemn you. Accept my 
terms. Go to Europe without seeing Clara again. Take 
your own time to return the money, and at the end of one 
year, if I have failed to win her, you are free to seek her 
anew, and I will giv£ you my word never to mention this 
affair again.” 

“ 1 see too plainly I have no other chance. If Clara 
loves me, as I have hoped, she will remain constant, regard- 
less of appearances, for that time. Thank Heaven, I have 
not sought to bind her by an engagement. Every chance 
is against me, though. What will she think of my leaving 
without telling her good-bye, even ? ” 

“ Just what I wish her to — that you do not love her any 
too devotedly. I will take your regrets to her, of ‘ pressure 
of business, and time,’ and such little excuses. Of course 
she will be mortified, and disappointed, and in this state of 
her feelings I hope to triumph. Once mine, I do not doubt 
being able to make her love me. ' Such love as mine must 
meet a response.” 

11 Be it so, George Marbury, but there’s a future, thank 
God. A time when we shall both stand before a just 
Judge. Are you not fearful you may yet need the mercy 
you now deny to me ? If not on earth, you surely will 
above. 


110 


RETALIATION. 


t( Clara, my daughter, why will you treat Mr. Marbury 
with so much indifference ? He is a very fine young man, 
and seems very much attached to you. There was a time, 
when I thought you liked him a little. I think you 
thought more of Everett Morse than he deserved. It is 
very evident, if he had loved you, he would not have gone 
away without saying a word. Banish him from your mind, 
and try to smile on one whose long devotion merits some 
kindness from you.” 

a Mother, I cannot help thinking there is some mystery 
relative to Everett’s leaving as he did. I feel perfectly 
sure he loved me. Every word and action told it plainly. 
Every moment that was not devoted to business, or his 
mother, he spent with us. We were not engaged, but 
there was an understanding between us. Only the night I 
last saw him, he said to me, ‘ when I come again I shall 
bring a ring to place on the finger of a certain lady fair, 
and try to win from her a promise, which will make me one 
of the happiest men on earth.’ Six months have passed 
since then, and not a word from him. That he is living, 
and well, I know, for Mr. Marbury told me they had a let- 
ter from him by the last steamer. What can he mean, 
mother ? n 

“ There is no doubt of one thing : he has trifled with 
you, and therefore is not worthy of one thought or regret. 
Clara, Mr. Marbury has spoken to me, and asked my ap- 
proval and influence in his favor. I believe he will make 
you a kind, loving husband. He is wealthy, and will place 
you in a position worthy of you. I wish very much you 
would accept him. You know how hard a struggle it is for 
me to keep up a respectable appearance. Your brother 
must continue his studies, which are very expensive. After 
he graduates, it will probably be a long time before he can 
get sufficient practice to enable him to help us. Our little 


RETALIATION. 


Ill 


is dwindling fast away, and it is absolutely necessary for 
you to take some thought for the future.” 

“ Have patience, mother, dear ; bear with me a little 
longer ! When another six months have passed away, if I 
have not heard from Everett, then I will relieve your mind 
and make Mr. Marbury as happy as a withered heart can. 
Let me have a year, mother, to recover from my lost love. 
Custom, you know, allows that time to those whose hearts 
are with the dead. If Everett is false, then he is dead to 
me. I will, no doubt, like Mr. Marbury very well ; as a 
friend, I respect him very much now. You may bid him 
hope, but nothing more, just yet. 

Days, weeks, months rolled rapidly past, but no tidings 
came to the anxious, waiting heart. Still the dead silence 
continued. 

Two weeks, only, remain of the allotted time. Never 
had days passed so slowly to George Marbury. 

Oh, the dreadful suspense ! What if, after all his plot- 
ting, he should fail to win her! He must make another 
appeal to Mrs. Dayton. 

All is joy now. She consents to be his. A few more 
days pass by, and, at length, but one more remains. But 
what cares he ! Standing before the altar, clasping the 
hand of her he would have risked salvation to gain, he is 
supremely happy. 

Slowly the man of God proceeds, each word binding them 
closer. With increased solemnity came the words, “ Wilt 
thou, forsaking all others, keep thee only to him, as long 
as both of ye shall live ! ” 

What inspiration caused her to raise her eyes, glance 
over, seek and find a face amidst the many there, whose 
every feature spoke to her heart, and answered the oft 
repeated inquiry ! Yes, he had loved her ever, and now. 
But why his mysterious silence ? 


112 


RETALIATION. 


She heard no more. Lower drooped her beautiful head, 
paler grew the sweet lips. A strong, firm arm clasped 
and supported her trembling form. 

A few more moments, and friends are crowding around. 
With a powerful effort she arouses her almost paralyzed 
faculties, and gracefully receiving the many kind wishes, 
she smilingly bids adieu, and is led away — enters the car- 
riage, and is soon on her way to New York, to take pas- 
sage on the steamer about to sail for Europe. 

Clara Dayton was a girl of pure principles and great 
depth of character. She immediately recognized the only 
path to find and secure peace and happiness. 

It was now her duty, she knew, to fulfil the vows she 
had made — to love and honor the man she had consented 
to call her husband. 

To this end she bent all her energies. By nature pious- 
ly inclined, she sought and obtained guidance and assistance 
from the throne of Grace. 

Time passed on ; children gathered around her; little 
arms fondly caressing, rosy lips ever lisping words of love, 
filled the mother’s heart to overflowing. There was no 
room for regrets. 

Mother’s love, so pure and holy, had chased all other 
thoughts aw T ay. It was no longer a task to learn to love 
her husband. It was perfectly natural to love him her little 
darlings clung around and called “ papa.” 

Nothing had she ever heard of Everett Morse, except 
that he had returned about the time of her marriage, set- 
tled up his business, and then resigned his connection with 
the firm. 

George Marbury was happier than he ever thought to be. 
The doubt which had clouded the early days of his mar- 
riage had entirely passed away. At times, when gazing on 
his wife’s beautiful face, beaming with content and liappi- 


RETALIATION. 


113 


ness, he would wonder if it were possible she had ever 
loved the man from whom he had won her. The means by 
which he obtained this great blessing never troubled his 
conscience at all. 

When his, he lavished on her everything that wealth 
could purchase — maintaining her in a style of such elegance 
that many were the whispered predictions that such reck- 
less extravagance could not last a great while. 9 

As the years roll past, anxiety, grief and disappointment 
enter the home where content, joy and hope had dwelt so 
long. 

Their eldest child, a handsome, bright, intelligent youth 
of nineteen years, proved no longer a source of comfort and 
happiness. 

Beared in the lap of luxury, cradled in idleness, subject 
to little, if any restraint, he followed the bent of his incli- 
nations, and found pleasure among the youths of the wild- 
est and most reckless habits. 

Constantly were his parents’ hearts wrung with the fear 
of coming evil. 

At last it came, striking a terrible blow, particularly to 
the proud-hearted father. 

With all his boy’s faults he had never feared dishonesty. 
That was impossible for his son. 

But so it was. Fate had decided that the brand of forgery 
should rest upon the hitherto spotless name of Marbury. 
For nearly a year this youth had occupied a position in a 
large importing house, and had won the confidence of his 
employers. Intrusted frequently to draw from the bank 
various sums of money, he became very familiar with the 
signature of the principal of the firm. 

The dreadful infatuation of the gaming-table had lured 
him from the paths of honor and honesty. 

Constant losses had made him reckless, and from time to 

7 


114 


RETALIATION. 


time he drew on the bank for small sums, hoping each night 
that luck would smile on him, and he should be able to re- 
turn the money^ 

It grew worse and worse. Larger sums were drawn to 
meet the emergencies, till at last the day of reckoning 
came. 

****** 

u Lather, dear ; do go up in Dayton’s room and see what 
is the matter with him. He rushed in a few moments ago 
when I was arranging his room, and is now packing his 
travelling bag. He will not tell me what is the matter or 
where he is going. He seems terribly agitated,” exclaimed 
Georgette Marbury, rushing into the library, where her 
father sat reading. 

Before he could reach the door she cried out again-: 

“ Haste, father, he is coming down ; do stop him, here he 
is ! ” 

With hasty strides her father reaches the hall door, in 
time to place his hand upon his son, and ask : 

“ Dayton, my son, what means this agitation, this haste ? 
Where are you going, what is the matter ?” 

“ Father, let me pass ! Do not detain me — nor question ! 
You will know too soon. Let me go quick before it is too 
late. Open the door, or I will soon end my disgrace. 
Thank Heaven, I have the means of eseape ! ” and he placed 
his hand in his bosom. 

A quick, light step was sounding through the hall, and 
soon the erring youth was caught and clasped tightly in 
loving arms, the wildly throbbing head pillowed on the 
mother’s devoted breast, and with gentle, encouraging 
words she drew him into the room. 

u Where would you, my boy, find surer help in this hour 
of need, than from your parents. Come, my husband, let 
us stand by our boy. Tell him, though all the world con- 


RETALIATION. 


115 


demn and desert him, we will do our best to save him. 
What is it? Speak, my child, do not fear; your mother’s 
heart is strong enough to hear the worst, and brave enough 
to bear all, for those she loves. Father, speak to your 
boy.” 

“ My son, let us know the worst. You have your moth- 
er’s promise of help. I will do all she wishes.” 

“ Oh, you may save me from imprisonment, but the ter- 
rible shame for you to bear. Your name borne by a for- 
ger ! ” gasped forth the guilty youth. 

Ci Old Truman will have no mercy. I heard him say that 
when he discovered the guilty one, he would make an exam- 
ple of him,” he continued. 

Swiftly flew the thoughts of the father back to the time, 
long years ago, when another young man stood before him, 
writhing under his relentless hand. And now comes back 
to him the long-forgotten words : 

“ Do you not fear you may need the mercy you now deny 
to me ? ” 

At last he hoarsely whispered: 

“ The amount ! tell me ! ” 

“ Five thousand dollars ! Father, you can easily fix that , 
but the shame,” he answered, unconsciously probing still 
deeper and deeper the wounded man. 

“ My wife, you will have to suffer more than this disgrace. 
For years I have been living beyond my means. I cannot 
meet this, but only by withdrawing from the firm. This 
property and everything else is no longer mine, nor has it 
been for three years past. I have tried to keep this from 
you, hoping I could manage these difficulties until Uncle 
Jacob’s death. I feared that if the strange old man should 
know I was no longer prosperous, he would destroy his will, 
and cut me entirely off. Now if he hears of this, 1 fear the 
consequence.” 


116 


RETALIATION. 


“ Oh ! this is a severe blow.” 

A loud ring came from the hall door, and a girlish voice 
softly said : 

“Papa! there is a geftitleman in the next room, who 
wishes to see you, and he asked if Dayton was home.” 

“After me, I know! Father, let me go away. I have 
money enough to carry me out of the country,” pleaded the 
boy. 

“Remain with your mother, I will see this gentleman, and 
try to make terms with him.” 

“ God bless you, my husband, do not think of me, think 
only of your son, and your name.” 

“Mr. Marbury, I am here on very unpleasant business. 
I hope, however, to give you some comfort. Your son is 
with you, I hear ; I was fearful he had fled. He has told 
you, I think, of his trouble,” said the stranger. 

“ You are right, sir. The amount I (pan return, that is 
nothing; but Oh, God! the disgrace ! Can I hope for any 
mercy ? Can any thing induce Mr. Truman to spare us 
that ? ” 

“ Mr. Marbury, I am a man of few words, and wish not to 
prolong your sufferings. I have plead with Mr. Truman for 
your son. He is a stern, rather hard man ; but I think I 
have induced him to yield. He is under obligation to me, 
in fact, only my representative ; the capital is mine. When 
he became aware of this unhappy business, he immediately 
telegraphed for me, — before he had ascertained the guilty 
one. This affair is known only to Mr. Truman, the book- 
keeper, and mj'self, and I am here this morning, to pledge 
to you, sir, that this ^knowledge shall go am further. Re- 
lieve your mind, your son?s .and your wifeus. The name of 
Marbury shall remain spotless.” 

“ How can J, ever thank you ! On what"terms is this 
mercy granted us. I will be ready to meet them, immedi- 
ately.” 


RETALIATION. 


117 


“ I have made all the necessary arrangements. I know 
you are a proud man, therefore I will not release your son 
from the payment of this money. I must insist however that 
he shall pay it. Here are notes which he must sign. You 
will see I have made them in ten payments ; yearly. This 
will be five hundred each year. I have an object in this, 
it will arouse him ; give him something to work for, bring 
forth his self-respect, and more than all, will make a man of 
him. I am a queer fellow, you may think, but I choose to 
try this experiment. Tor years pa&tThave been making my- 
self happy, by doing little kindnesses for friends — people 
who loved me. This time I thought I would try how much 
happier I should be in doing good to him ‘who hated and 
despitefully used me.’ ” 

“ What can you mean ? Who are you ? Why have you 
acted thus ? ” asked the astonished man. 

“ I feel a deep sympathy for your son, Mr. Marbury, be- 
cause in years gone by I was tempted, and yielded. I plead 
with one for mercy, and it was granted me. You know at 
what cost. More than all, I could not suffer Clara Dayton’s 
son should wear the brand of shame ! Do you not know me 
George Marbury ? Has time and the grey hairs altered me, 
so much ? ” 

“Everett Morse ! Just Heaven, how mysterious are thy 
ways ! Yes, I spared you, but for a dreadful sacrifice. 
Forgive, oh h ^.Forgive me ! Oh ! how prophetic were your 
words,” burst from the lips of the humiliated man. 

“ I do forgive -you — have, long years ago. I have known 
she was happy with you, and I was content. Will you some 
time, when you best can, let her kn'ow how it was I lost her ? 
Is this asking too muchjj^ 

“ How can I ? This is a severe task, but be it as you 
wish.” 

The door opened, and Clara stood before them. 


118 


retaliation. 


Going up to the bowed man, she raised his head, pressed 
her lips to the burning brow, and then holding out her hand 
to Everett Morse, she said : 

“ Nay, he need not tell me ; I know all. I have heard 
from the next room. To you, of all the world, I would 
sooner be indebted for this great kindness. I know how 
good and noble you are, but I cannot find it in my heart to 
censure him, whose only fault was through his loving me so 
much.” 

Both men were answered — yes, satisfied. The look she 
bent on each, told to one her true appreciation and gratitude, 
to the other — that he alone she loved. 

Little more remains to tell: many years have passed, and 
Dayton Marbury stands before the world, beloved and re- 
spected by his fellow men. Many are the speculations con- 
cerning the great intimacy and devoted friendship between 
the old bachelor and this young man, but to few is known 
the true reason why they love each other thus. 



I 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN*. 


She is active, stirring, all fire, 

Cannot rest, cannot tire, 

To a stone she had given life. — B rowning. 


“ Good bye, Lottie darling. Write soon and often, and 
above all, do not get so infatuated with fashionable life in 
town, that you will not be contented in your quiet country 
home again.” 

“ Never fear, mother dear. Most likely before the expi- 
ration of the time allowed for my visit, I shall be not only 
willing, but anxious to return to home and you. I am 
very sure my fine lady aunt will never be able to make a 
fashionable young miss of me. So don’t be surprised if 
she gets disgusted and starts me back home in a very short 
time. Good bye, aunt Cloe.” 

“ Good bye, Miss Lottie, honey. Hope you’ll ketch a 
husban and a fortun in town. Not like ye r mar. She 
went to town, ketched a husban, and lost a fortun. I kin 
tell yer, honey, how ye r mus do. Mine now, yer fine yer 
mar’s old uncle Hiram, and when he sees dat smilin face of 
yourn, he’ll forgit all his bad feelins ginst yer mar. And 
dat’s de way yer fine de fortun. Mine, I profecise dat. 
Ole Cloe’s words nebber fails.” 

(( Thank you, aunt Cloe, for good wishes. This time, I 
think your prophecy will surely fail. I would like to see 
my uncle very much and win his love; but I shall not go 
to him, for he might think I was fortune hunting. 

( 119 ) 


120 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


f 11 Joe is hurrying me, and says we shall be late if I lin- 
ger a moment longer. Good bye. Take care of my ducks 
’ and chickens.” 

Smilingly waving her last adieux, little Lottie Merrill 
sprang lightly into the old-fashioned carryall. Her brother 
Joe whipped up the horses into a brisk trot. 

They had a distance of two miles to ride to the depot, 
and during the drive, Joe occupied the time by giving sun- 
dry pieces of advice and caution to his sister. 

Be it known that this worthy and wise young gentleman 
was nineteen ; having a superiority of two years over his 
little sister. 

He had been up to Baltimore on several occasions, and 
so his knowledge of travel, and in fact, the world in gene- 
ral, was pretty thorough (in his own opinion). 

“ Now, Lottie, mind and be very careful of your pocket- 
book. And do not talk to any one on the cars, because if 
any of those sharpers find out you are from the country, 
and not used to travelling, they will be sure to trap and rob 
you. You hang onto the conductor, he is the only safe one, 
the only one to be trusted at all. When you get to Phila- 
delphia he will put you under the care of another one, and 
then you will be all right, for Cousin Julian is to meet you 
in New York.” 

u Remember now what I’ve told you. You see I’ve trav- 
elled and know the ropes. They tried to trap me, but I 
was too old for them. Well here we are ‘at the depot, and 
not a moment to lose.” 

Lottie was in a few more moments dashing rapidly away 
from her country home. For a while her poor little heart 
was grieving considerably. She was so sorry to leave her 
dear mother, who would miss her so much, and Joe, too ; 
how lonesome he would be during the long winter evenings. 
Poor old Aunt Cloe how much more work she would have 
to do while she was away ! 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


121 


She felt how very selfish she was in leaving them, and-*, 
being so anxious to get among her rich relations. Her 
beautiful blue eyes, usually so laughing and bright, were 
looking very sad, and her pretty little rosebud of a mouth, 
wore the expression of a grieved yhild. 

But after awhile the fleeting shadows passed away, and 
there came visions of the long anticipated visit. How joy- 
ous, bright, and exaggerated they were, is known only to 
country lasses on their journey to make the first visit fo 
town. 

Lottie had been up to Baltimore two or three times for a 
day, with her friends, Col. Brigham’s daughters. She had 
been educated with these young ladies. The Colonel and 
her father were very dear friends, and he insisted that as 
he had a governess in his family, Lottie should share with 
his daughters her instructions. After the death of her 
father, the Colonel continued his care for his friend’s child ; 
so at the age of seventeen Lottie was quite an accomplished 
young lady, but without a particle of style, as her fashion- 
able aunt declared. 

Lottie had been working all the Spring and Summer, to 
raise the requisite amount of money to fit her put for this 
trip. Very busy had she been, and her adviser and co- 
worker, aunt Cloe, had disposed of a wonderful amount of 
eggs, butter, chickens, dried fruit, and so on ; much to the 
disgust of Joe, who did not at all sanction the exporting of 
these good things. He believed in, and only favored 
home consumption. 

Very pretty looked our little heroine, in her travelling 
suit of blue merino. The coquettish blue velvet hat dis- 
playing to great advantage her beautifully rounded head 
with its wealth of bright brown ringlets. Many were the 
glances of admiration bent on her, by the occupants of the 
surrounding seats. 


122 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


Nothing of much importance transpired to interest her 
particularly, until she had changed cars, and was en route 
for Philadelphia. 

This train chanced to be very much crowded. For sev- 
eral miles, she had shared the seat with an old lady, whose 
rotundity was of such dimensions, as made it necessary for 
Lottie to make herself very comfortable in about one-fourth 
of the seat. However, to her great satisfaction, the old 
lady took her departure at one of the way stations. But 
just as she had smoothed out her skirts, and began to feel 
the luxury of breathing space, she was aroused by a soft, 
pleasant voice saying : 

“ Will you allow me to share your seat ? 99 

Looking up, she beheld a tall, graceful gentleman, with 
large, brilliant dark eyes, and soft, black hair, pushed back 
from the full, high forehead, — just her idea of a handsome 
man. 

With a pleasant little bow, she made room for him. 

Many were the polite attentions he offered her in the 
way of papers, books, and information relative to the vari- 
ous stopping places. These she received rather coldly, re- 
membering her brother Joe’s advice to “ beware of 
sharpers.” 

Surely this splendid looking fellow must be a gentleman, 
she thought. How she wished she knew if he were honest, 
so she could hear and talk to him. She wished Joe had 
kept his advice, and left her to follow her own inclination. 
When, however, she found out that he was going to Now 
York, and resided there, she was proof no longer against 
his continued attempts at conversation, and determined she 
would enjoy his company the rest of the journey, even if 
it resulted in the loss of her pocket-book. Coming to this 
conclusion, she talked freely to her delighted listener, who 
was very much pleased to see this change of action on the 
part of his fair neighbor. 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


123 


She told him where she was going, and the name of her 
relatives, and was much assured, when the suspected indi- 
vidual told her that he had been to college with her cousin 
Julian; had frequently met the young ladies at parties, 
and had on one occasion, (the last New Year’s day), called 
at the house, and should in the future, with her permis- 
sion, be a frequent visitor. It was all right then ; she 
could, and did trust him, and was sorry enough, when they 
arrived at Jersey City, and were met by Julian Tracy, who 
formally presented his .friend, Doctor Worth. 

Whilst crossing the ferry, Lottie laughingly explained 
her reserve during the first hours of their meeting, by re- 
lating Joe’s sage advice, much to the amusement of her 
cousin and Doctor Worth; the latter replying “Your 
brother was very wise. I feel pretty sure that some one 
was robbed on our train, of something more valuable than 
his pocket-book.” And he playfully laid his hand over 
his heart. 

Placing her in the carriage waiting, while J ulian looked 
after her baggage, Dr. Worth told her he should take an 
early opportunity of calling, and expressed the hope that 
this accidental acquaintance should be of lasting and pleas- 
ant continuance. Thanking Julian for the invitation to 
come soon, and pressing the hand of Lottie, he took his de- 
parture. 

We shall pass over the meeting with her aunt and cous- 
ins, only saying that Mrs. Tracy was well pleased with Lot- 
tie s appearance, saying to her elder daughter : 

“ She is not at all stylish or showy, but piquant and de- 
cidedly taking. She will be sure to make an impression on 
her debut.” 

And so it proved. This new star in the firmament of 
fashionable society, quite dazzled the eyes, and turned the 
Leads of most of the elegible young men, and indeed, her 


124 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


very pretty face, combined with her simplicity, the total 
absence of anything like Art, her confiding, child-like man- 
ner, won for her the admiration of the papas, all of whom 
were willing, indeed anxious to welcome her as a daughter; 
should his boy be the favored one. 

Lottie, to the great dissatisfaction of her aunt, would do 
as she would. 

The principal cause of complaint was her entire disre- 
gard of the most devoted and continued attentions of young 
Percival Fitzhugh. He being the most desirable catch in 
the city ; the only son and heir of a wealthy banker, who, 
rumor said, had declared his intentions of turning over to 
his young hopeful the comfortable sum of a million, to com- 
mence married life with. Be this as it might, Mrs. Tracy 
having angled in vain for him, in behalf of her daughter, 
welcomed the prospect of having him in the family some- 
how. 

She could keep quiet no longer, and proceeded to remon- 
strate with Lottie. 

“ 1 am astonished at you, child ! Are you going to throw 
away the chance that most all the girls would gladly seize ? 
Young Fitzhugh is very much pleased with you. Just 
think of the splendid establishment he would place you at 
the head of,” she said. 

“ Can’t help it, auntie. I don’t like Fitz. I am very 
sorry if he has any idea of offering such inducements to me. 
But I really think you are mistaken. He is in love only 
with himself,” replied Lottie. 

“It is of no use suggesting such brilliant prospects to 
Lottie, ma; for it is very plain to see to whom her heart is 
turning, if not entirely gone. Dr. Worth is the favored 
one. I admire your taste, little cousin ; the doctor is a 
splendid fellow. I should likely enough have felt my heart 
in danger long ago, if it had not been guarded by two 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


125 


strong barriers : one being the fact of bis unmistakable de- 
votion to yourself ; showing plainly how hopeless my case 
would be. The other quite as formidable. He is too poor 
even to think of marrying. He has nothing in the world 
but his profession, and has a widowed mother to support. 
It seems too hard that Fortune should have treated so shab- 
bily one on whom Nature had bestowed so bountifully her 
good gifts,” said May Tracy. 

Lottie, humming a merry air, tripped lightly out of the 
room, deigning no reply. I think she dared not venture on 
this subject for fear of revealing what was hidden in the 
deepest recesses of her heart; the secure possession of which 
she no longer held. It was fluttering like a frightened 
bird, doubting, waiting only to be wooed to fly and find a 
haven in the bosom of young Richard Worth. 

“Joe’s words were prophetic. But not in the light he 
meant,” she whispered smilingly to herself. “I believe I 
was trapped and robbed in the railway cars ; but to save 
me I cannot regret it.” 

Lottie had been with her aunt about a month, when a 
very remarkable event took place, which much affected her 
future welfare. But I must not anticipate. 

Her cousins, May and Florence, had made an engagement 
for her to sit for a picture at a celebrated photograph gal- 
lery. 

The day was beautifully clear and bright — but bitterly 
cold. Lottie declared she would not go if they ordered the 
carriage. 

“ It was too hard on the poor horses, and the driver had a 
terrible cold besides. It was really useless, and she wanted 
to look at the pretty things on the way. If they got tired 
they could ride in the cars. She liked the fun of that, too.” 

So she carried her way, and they departed, accompanied 
by their constant attendant, Mr. Fitzhugh. 


126 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


Lunch was waiting for their return. At last they came. 

“ Where is Lottie ? ” was the universal question. 

“ Indeed, ina, Lottie is the most wilful and determined 
girl I ever saw, and does the strangest things. You might 
just as well try to stop the wind blowing as to stop her when 
she makes up her mind to do anything,” exclaimed May. 

“ Well, tell us where she is. Ill venture all my worldly 
goods, that whatever she has done is good and kind — yes, 
and proper too,” said Julian, who was very much attached 
to Lottie, in a cousinly way. 

“ I’ll tell you what she did, and then you will see how 
proper it was. Where she is, we don’t know. 

“ After we got through down town, Flory complained of 
being tired, and so we determined to ride home. Mr. Fitz- 
hugh was going to engage a carriage, when Lottie insisted 
on going in the cars, and off she flew and jumped in one 
just passing. Of course we had to follow. 

“ The car was quite crowded, and when we had gone a 
few blocks, there came in an old man, miserably dressed, 
with a large carpet-bag. Up sprang Lottie, and putting 
her arms around him, placed him tenderly and comfortably 
in her seat. Mr. Fitzhugh made her take his, then. 

u I was mortified enough. I was fearful the people 
might think he was something to us. We rode on, and I 
was beginning to feel a little more comfortable; when the 
car stopped and the old man was making his way out ; 
judge of my horror and amazement when she whispered to 
me : 

“ ‘ I will be on presently. I’m going to help this old 
gentleman a little way with his luggage. It is so slippery 
he might fall.’ 

“ The last we saw of her, she was holding him up as he 
crossed the street.” 

“Now, Julian, what do you think of this 'proper be- 
havior ? ” 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


127 


“Why, May, there is nothing really wrong about it. 
Lottie is decidedly something different from the modern 
young ladies. Very impulsive, acting directly from the 
promptings of a pure, kind heart. The direct cause of her 
action to-day I think you may attribute to reverence and 
venera tion,” answered her brother. 

“ Here comes the truant now. Come, answer for your- 
self, little one. Here are grave complaints against you. 
You are charged with violating all the rules regulating the 
conduct, airs, and graces of town-bred ladies. We will 
have to send you back to the country, for we shall never be 
able to make a fine young lady of you,” said Julian. 

Lottie glanced quickly, saw the merry twinkle in the eye 
of her cousin, and understood him. Turning to her aunt 
she said : 

u Aunty, Fm sorry if I have displeased you, but I do not 
regret an action of common humanity. I have sins enough 
to answer for, without adding one for wilful neglect of an 
aged person. I’ve returned safely, and feel satisfied and 
happy.” 

“ How far did you escort your protege, Lottie, and how 
did he receive your attentions ? ” asked JTlory. 

“ Not very far; he insisted on my leaving him, but I did 
not until I saw a pleasant-looking German boy, standing 
doing nothing; so I slipped fifty cents in his hand, and 
asked him to go home with the old gentleman and keep 
him from slipping down. He thanked me many times, 
asked my name, and where I lived ; and when I bade him 
good-bye, he said, ‘ Heaven bless you, jmu are a good child, 
and I feel sure that this kind act will be remembered by you 
very pleasantly as long as you live. When you pray, ask 
that grace may be sent from above, to comfort and soften a 
lonely, hard-hearted old man. Good-bye ! we may meet 
again,’ and so I left him ; and, indeed, I could hardly help 


128 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


crying, I felt so sorry for him. He is a gentleman, I know 
for he talks so well.” 

Weeks passed on, and Lottie’s visit was near its close. 
Humor said (and it was generally believed) that Dr. Worth 
had won from Lottie the consent to be his. One young 
friend, wiser than others, had declared that she knew it to be 
a positive fact that Lottie had said she was too young to 
marry yet awhile, and could very well afford to wait until 
the doctor should be in circumstances to justify his marry- 
ing. How true this was, I cannot tell, but feel perfectly 
safe in asserting that there was a happy and perfect under- 
standing between the two. 

It was her last day. On the morrow, she was to bid adieu 
to her kind friends and loving relatives. 

They were all loitering over the breakfast-table, when the 
servant brought Lottie a little note. Opening it, she read 
aloud : 

“ My good child, come to the old man you were kind to. 
The bearer has a carriage, and will wait for you. 

“ Let your cousin or some friend accompany you.” 

“This is very strange. You are not going, Lottie?” 
said May and Flora, simultaneously. 

“Yes, she is, I see,” said Julian, “and I will, with pleas- 
ure, go with her. There is something more in this than we 
can see.” 

They were soon on their way. After about a half-hour’s 
ride, they stopped before a large, old-fashioned, gloomy-look- 
ing brick house. The driver opened the carriage-door, and 
said : 

“ Here is the place, sir.” 

Helping Lottie out and up the stone steps, Julian was 
about to raise the handle of the dusty knocker, when the 
door was suddenly opened by an old woman, who said : 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


129 


(< Come in, Miss. The master has been waiting for you.” 

Opening a door upon the first floor, she ushered them in. 

Seated in a large easy chair, paler and thinner than when 
she last saw him, w r as the old man — -Hiram Watson — for so 
it proved to be. Holding out his hand, he said : 

“ I knew you would come, my good child. You are very 
like your mother was, at your age. Ah, I see you are look- 
ing surprised, but I knew your mother well. Can you re- 
member ever hearing her speak of her Uncle Hiram ? ” 

11 Oh yes, often. Are you Uncle Hiram ? I am so glad 
to know you ! ” 

Springing, she pressed her lips to his withered brow, and 
seated herself at his feet, saying: 

“ Speak to Julian, my cousin, won’t you, uncle ? ” 

“ Excuse me, sir — I was so engaged with this dear child, 
that I’ve been very negligent. I am glad to meet you. 
Be seated, sir.” 

Turning again to Lottie, he said : 

u Providence ordained that I should meet you, Lottie, and 
feel the influence of your loving kindness. I have been 
quite sick since I last saw you, but with God’s blessing and 
the kind attendance of the good doctor, I am much better 
now, and the doctor says I am able to travel a little. I 
want to go home with you, little one. 

“Pm so lonesome, I want to finish my days with your 
mother. Do you think she will welcome me ? ” 

“Yes, yes, uncle — she loves you, I know. She wanted I 
should try to find you, but ” 

u But what, my dear ? ” * 

“ I was afraid you would think I was fortune hunting, so 
I would not try to find you,” said she, blushing deeply. 

“ Well, my child, Heaven willed that you should. Ah, 
here is my friend and doctor : my niece, Miss Merril — Doc- 
tor Worth.” 

8 


180 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


Richard Worth was standing transfixed with wonder. 
Lottie and Julian were very much enjoying his surprise. 
At last, he recovered himself, and exclaimed : 

“ Why, Lottie, is it possible ?” 

“ And I must say, why, Doctor, is it possible that you 
know my niece ? ” said Uncle Hiram. 

“ Yes, sir, I am fortunate in the possession of such a 
great pleasure/’ said the doctor, casting a look of pride and 
love towards Lottie. 

“ If I could read looks, I should say you knew each other 
well, and liked each other better. I am glad, very glad. 
I think I shall attempt match-making once more, and meet 
with a happier result this time. Doctor, this dear child’s 
mother was my niece and adopted daughter. I brought her 
from Maryland, educated her, and wanted to marry her to 
my ward, hut she chose differently. I have never seen her 
since. This little one has made it all right now. I am go- 
ing home with her, and after a little while, if you should 
follow, and ask our consent, I think neither she nor I would 
say nay. And Uncle Hiram’s wedding presents will be no 
mean dowry, hut a worthy setting for so pure and valuable 
a gem as this,” patting Lottie’s head. 

The charming look of gratitude, and the warmth with 
which the young doctor pressed his hand, was a sufficient 
answer for the old uncle. 

Lottie’s departure was postponed for a few days, and then, 
accompanied by her uncle, she returned to her country 
home. The welcome which greeted the old man was so 
earnest and loving, that he was fully satisfied that his re- 
maining days would he very happy there. 

With every month came young Worth, urging Lottie for 
a speedy union ; and before another year had passed he 
came once more, bringing Julian, his 'mother and sisters. 
There was a quiet little wedding. 


OUR CAPRICIOUS PET. 


131 


After the ceremony Uncle Hiram placed a packet in his 
niece’s hand ; which opening, she found a document putting 
her in the immediate possession of fifty thousand dollars. 

Aunt Cloe, hearing this, left her kitchen, at the risk of 
burning her waffles, to dart into the parlor, and exclaim, to 
the amusement of all : 

“ Old Cloe’s words nebber fails. Didn’t I profecise that 
you’d ketch a husban’ and a fortun’ ! What you dun say 
now ? ” and she made her exit amidst peals of laughter. 

“ I say it is better to be born ‘ lucky than rich,’ ” said 
Joe. 

“ I say Lottie was born both said Julian. “ Lucky, you 
will all admit ; and also rich, in the possession of the tru- 
est, rarest qualities of a good, pure heart.” 

Lottie’s and the doctor’s example was followed by others. 

Julian, to Lottie’s great joy, wooed and won her dear 
friend, the elder Miss Bingham. May succeeded in catch- 
ing young Fitzhugh; and Flory’s bright eyes made such 
sad havoc on the heart of the young minister who presided 
at Lottie’s wedding, that report says she is about to try and 
heal the wounds she inflicted. 


ONLY A COMMA. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


A lie that is half a truth is ever the worst of lies ; 

A lie that is all a lie can be met and fought with outright; 

But a lie that is half a truth is a harder matter to fight. — Tennyson. 

In the elegant boudoir of the beautiful and wealthy Mrs. 
Carlton may be seen a little gem of art — a painting of 
water-colors, the design of which has long been a subject of 
speculation and much interest to many friends, particularly 
to her daughter, a little Miss of fourteen years, who had 
often pleaded to know what it meant. 

The single word, Only , is painted in letters formed by 
the entwining of the graceful myrtle, the beautiful forget- 
me-not, and here and there, almost hidden, falls a spray of 
the drooping hop-vine. 

In answer to the many inquiries concerning this picture, 
Mrs. Carlton would say : 

“That little word was a pet of mine, long years ago. If 
you will think on it, you will know how little , yet oh ! 
how much it may express. So it was a whim of mine to 
paint it in flowers of love and remembrance. 

Sometimes some one brighter than the others, or a young 
girl, just fresh from her floral dictionary, would spy out and 
remark — 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Carlton, but I notice, almost hidden 'among 
the flowers a spray of the hop-vine. That seems hardly in 
keeping with the others ! You know that tells of Injus- 
tice ! ” 


( 132 ) 


ONLY A COMMA. 133 

Perhaps a hardly discernible expression of annoyance 
flits over the fair face. But she answers pleasantly: 

“I might have thought of that. But I wanted some- 
thing more to give a finish to the letters, and so I trained 
in a few of those little sprays. Never thinking,” she added 
with a smile, " it would meet the eye of so severe a critic.” 

This reply might have been satisfactory to many. But 
the one for whom it was intended, came to the conclusion 
there was more in the hop-vine than Mrs. Carlton cared 
to tell, at any rate to her. 

“ Mamma dear, do tell me to-day, just now, all about that 
flowery picture. I am so anxious to know. I am sure I am 
old enough to understand it now. There was an incident 
which took place in school to-day, which makes me more 
than ever anxious to know all about it. Miss May, who 
has charge of our drawing class, has gone home, and in her 
place we have a stranger. She gave me a flower piece to 
work on. Among the various kinds were 1 forget-me-nots.’ 
I mentioned your having a painting of those, and went on 
to tell her of the curiosity it caused. Then I said you had 
told me it was a 1 heart’s history of the past.’ She seemed 
very much interested, indeed, quite agitated. She asked 
me my name ! When I answered, she turned quite pale, 
and I thought she would faint. I heard her murmur, ‘ How 
very strange ;’ and often during the afternoon I noticed her 
gazing on me very earnestly, and sadly too, I think. To 
save me, mamma, I cannot divest my mind of the idea that 
she is in some way connected with your picture ! ” said Car- 
rie Carlton, who had just entered her mother’s room, on re- 
turning from school. 

“ Her name, dear ! Do you know ? ” 

“ Yes, mamma ! Miss Davenport.” 

“ Davenport! Evelyn! Yes, it must he! It is very 
strange ! You are right, my child. Miss Davenport is 


184 


ONLY A COMMA. 


connected with that little word. Once thoughtlessly spoken, 
wilfully misinterpreted and wickedly repeated, caused a great 
deal of sorrow and suffering to one who was very near to 
me. Again, when sadly breathed forth, it fell on a sympa- 
thetic ear, entered a warm, true heart, found and brought 
forth hope, love, protection ! Oh ! my child, when I gaze 
on that picture, every leaf of those sweet flowers seem whis- , 
pering reminders of so much love and sympathy, and trying 
to cluster round and hide from view those other sprays 
which are drooping. low, burdened with a weight of the 
direst injustice. Yes, dear, I will tell you the story, hop- 
ing that it may prove not only one of interest, but one 
from which you may draw a lesson for future profit. 

“ Seventeen years ago, in this city T , lived a young girl 
struggling with the hard, cold world for a support for her- 
self and widowed mother. Although liberally educated, 
and possessing many accomplishments, she could gain no 
assistance from these means. Her mother was an invalid, 
requiring almost constant care ; therefore Ellenor (we will 
call her) could avail herself of none of the various offers as 
governess or teacher. Either of these positions would re- 
move her from home. So her only resource was the needle. 
While thus employed, she could still watch over and care 
for her suffering parent. 

“ In this employment she was, for a time, very success- 
ful. Her patrons were among the elite of the city. One 
of them was Mrs. C., a lady of kind heart, great liberality, 
and immense wealth. 

“Ellenor Deering was very frequently at the home of 
this lad} 7 — going for and returning with work — frequently 
remaining through the day, during which time her absence 
from her mother was supplied by Mrs. C/s maid, a kind, 
experienced, and worthy woman. 

“Mrs. C/s family consisted of two young misses, aged 


ONLY A C Q.M M A . 


135 


twelve and fourteen years, a young girl, named Evelyn 
Davenport, the orphan daughter of a very dear friend of 
Mrs. C.’s, and the betrothed wife of young Dr. C., the only 
son and centre of all his mother’s hopes. 

“ It was her dearest wish to unite her son with her 
friend’s child ; and to this end she bent all her energies. 
So far as a betrothal she had succeeded. 

“ Often during Ellenor’s presence in this family, she met 
Dr. C., whose manner to the poor seamstress was ever re- 
spectful and very kind. 

“ When he was near she almost forgot, for the time, that 
she was not one of their friends or associates. He not only 
rendered her respect, but enforced it on the other members 
of the family. 

“ Evelyn Davenport was very much inclined to make El- 
lenor know and feel her inferior position, and, to use her 
own words, i keep her in a seamstress’s place.’ 

u Often she was checked in her haughty airs, and conde- 
scending manner, by a glance from the clear, honest eye, 
which expressed so plainly his disapproval of such a spirit. 
The spirit of Christianity shone forth in all the acts of this 
noble man. 

“ He had earnestly desired to enter the ministry. But 
his parents would not hear of it. He must enter the med- 
ical world — follow his father’s profession. He acquiesced, 
saying: 

“ ‘ Perhaps it is better so. For in no work, has a man 
such a wide field for usefulness, as in the practice of medi- 
cine. He could not only comfort the mind and ease the 
body, but properly use his wealth — valueless to him — if he 
could not share with, and help the needy.” 

“ Mrs. C., at one time, prevailed on Ellenor to come to 
the house every day, for a week or so, to get the girls 
ready to go to school. The first day of that notable time, 


136 


ONLY A COMMA. 


Ellenor’s dinner was sent up to her in the sitting-room, 
where she was engaged in sewing. She thought nothing 
of it, expecting either that, or to come to the second table 
with the housekeeper. The next day her mother was not 
as well as usual, and so she was detained some time beyond 
the regular hour for presenting herself in the work-room. 

“ When she reached the house, she went up quietly, and 
entered, and was getting her sewing out, when her atten- 
tion was arrested by hearing her name. She listened. In 
the next moment she heard Mrs. C. saying : 

“ ‘ Miss Peering is not coming to-day, I fear. It is 
quite late/ 

“ ‘ She is offended for not being invited to dinner yester- 
day. I suppose she is so very genteel and worthy (in her 
own estimation)/ said Evelyn Davenport, rather spitefully. 

“ ‘ And why should she not be in yours and ours ? ’ 

“‘Why was she not at the table, mother? She is re- 
fined and modest, and would be, I think, an excellent com- 
panion for my sisters. I would have them like her. She 
would grace the best society. It is her devotion to her 
mother which places her there. You know it is only be- 
cause the same Goddess that smiles on you and yours, turns 
a cold, frowning face towards her. Fortune alone makes 
the difference/ said her son, in warm, earnest tones. 

“ How those kind words went to the heart, and stamped 
firmly, and forever, the image of the one who uttered them, 
you may well imagine. 

“‘My son, I have no real objection to Miss Deering’s 
presence at my table, but you know it is not customary, 
and yesterday we had company — Miss Le Blanc. You 
know she is so very aristocratic, I don’t know what she 
would have thought of such a thing/ 

“‘ Oh, Mother ! Put away those thoughts and words, so 
unworthy of your good heart. Act right> never fearing or 


ONLY A COMMA. 


137 


caring what your friends may say. You are in a position 
which will enable you to stand above these forms and cus- 
toms. Think, mother dear, of these two young girls. 
Take from the favored one, only one possession, and give it 
to the humble sewing girl, and which then, would you give 
the preference ? Mother dear, it was a real infliction on 
my patience, yesterday, to sit through the long dinner hour, 
and to listen to her idle, silly talk. And while I think of 
her, I remember hearing my dear father say he knew the 
father of this young lady when he was a little boy, as 
George White. But when he came in possession of his fa- 
ther’s hard-gained gold, there came ideas of grandeur, and 
so on. He went to Paris for a few years, then returned 
with the recently acquired knowledge of noble descent, 
and entered the fashionable world as Le Blanc. 

“ ‘ Mother, for my sake — for the sake of my dear de- 
parted father, who was ever just — come forth ! Place Merit 
before Wealth. Make up in the future for yesterday’s 
wrong.’ 

“ Then came forth a mocking laugh, and in a scornful 
voice the words from Evelyn Davenport : 

“ ‘ Peallj 7 , Doctor C., you would, no doubt, like to have 
your mother receive Miss Deering — this piece of elegance 
and perfection — as a daughter! Upon my word, sir, you 
are very fond and careful of this young person. I think I 
will resign in her favor. She is an artful girl. Yesterday 
you sent her flowers ! Yes, and peeled an orange for her ! 
I do not care a straw for your affection, sir, if it is divided 
with such as she is.’ 

“ There was a silence for some moments, and then Doc- 
tor C. answered : 

“‘Evelyn, what can I say for these false — yes, I must 
say it — and unjust words ? I am always with the op- 
pressed, and those needing my help. I did not send her 


138 


ONLY A COMMA. 


the flowers, I gave them to her*;' and she asked if she 
might give you part. I said “ Certainly.” About the fruit 
it is true. I performed that service of pleasure for my 
mother and you, and do you think I would slight another 
in the same room, and at the same time? Never! And 
now let me tell you, dear Evelyn, you must try and conquer 
this unhappy disposition. Cast forth all unjust thoughts, 
or we shall never be happy. I would not — dare not, risk 
your happiness, or mine, by uniting our future, until you 
rise above your present unhappy disposition. We should 
be a miserable pair, indeed. I love you, Evelyn ; but for 
some time past I have been watching with sorrow and 
many misgivings these grave errors. You must not doubt 
my actions. I would be above reproach. Do this, and be 
to me the gentle, loving girl of years ago,” said Doctor C., 
earnestly. 

“ ‘ Never will I try to change my nature for you, sir; 
and remember you have no right yet to dictate to me ! 9 she 
angrity replied ; and, going out of the room, ran up stairs. 

“ Ellenor Deering was spell-bound. She knew not what 
to do, or how to act. She should, she thought, have let 
them know of her presence ; but she was so much aston- 
ished, her faculties quite deserted her. So she was unin- 
tentionally an ‘eavesdropper/ 

“ Mrs. C. did not come into the room for an hour or so, 
and then asked, anxiously : 

“ ‘ How long have you been here ? 9 

“ ‘ Some minutes. I am quite late, but mother needed 
me longer than usual this morning/ answered Ellenor. 

“ This evasive reply disarmed the fears of Mrs. C., rela- 
tive to whether their conversation had been heard. 

“ Ellenor thought it best for the comfort of all parties j 
and when Mrs. C. came in again, and said : 

“‘Come, Miss Deering, the dinner-bell is ringing; we 


ONLY A COMMA. 


139 


will go down/ she slightly demurred, but the kind manner 
induced her to accept the apology for the neglect of the 
previous day, and so things passed on quite pleasantly dur- 
ing the remainder of the week. Evelyn seemed rather bet- 
ter tempered, yet Ellenor thought she could detect an occa- 
sional glance of deep malice flash from her dark eye. 

u Time passed on. The girls left for school, Doctor C. to 
finish his course of studies, and Ellenor continued to re- 
ceive work from Mrs. C. and Miss Davenport. 

“ One day when the poor girl had gone to return a piece 
of embroidery to her employers, Evelyn came to have a 
dress cut. She was waiting when the seamstress came in, 
but not noticing a visitor, she went up to her mother, and 
said, joyfully : 

“ ‘ Oh, mamma ! for that piece of work Mrs. C. paid me 
ten dollars ! Only think of it/ 

li 1 It is like her. I expected nothing else. Mrs. C. is a 
very kind, liberal woman/ answered her mother. 

“ The dress was cut and fitted, and receiving the promise 
to have it in two days, Evelyn left. A servant came for it, 
paid the usual price, and brought a little note, saying : 
‘ Mrs. C. would not need Miss Deering’s services any 
longer/ 

“ Ellenor was amazed at this. She called to ask an ex- 
planation from Mrs. C., but was told always that the lady 
was engaged ; and so she knew nothing about the reason 
for this unkindness. 

“ One after another of her patrons discharged her, and 
in a few weeks the once prosperous and happy girl was re- 
duced to real want. 

u She knew she should soon be alone in the world. But 
God was very merciful. With the rapidly declining 
strength the mind failed too; and the peevish, fretful suf- 
ferer became gentle, pleasant, yes, even joyous. She was a 


140 


ONLY A COMMA. 


girl again — round her the friends of youth ; and every com- 
fort and even luxury, she thought. Thus poor Ellenor was 
saved from the torture of having her mother sensible to all 
the surrounding poverty. 

“A little longer, and with a beaming smile, which told 
of a vision of peace and joyous meetings, the mother’s spir- 
it passed from earth. Friends, from the humble walks of 
life came forth, and with the kind minister performed the 
sad services for the dead, and tried to comfort the lone one. 

“ All was over. Sitting bowed with grief, heart and 
mind away with the absent, she heeded not the deep soli- 
tude surrounding her. The gentle knock at the door was 
unheard. At length a deep, kind voice was sounding in her 
ear, calling her back to her lonely, desolate life. 

u 1 Miss Deering ! ’ 

il She raised her eyes and beheld Arthur C.” 

“ Oh, mamma ! I know now, I thought only one could 
be so good and kind ’ 

“ Stop, dear, let me finish my story before you begin 
your comments. 

“ Bending down and gazing at her with an expression of 
the deepest sympathy, he took her hand, pressed it and 
said: 

“ 1 What is it ? Speak to me ! Tell me what is the 
trouble ? ’ 

" ‘ Only tired of life ; — without friends ; the only one is 
gone. All alone. Only I am left,” wailed forth the stricken 
girl. 

“ ‘ Miss Deering, why have you kept aloof from your 
friends ? Why not have let us know of your sorrow ? Do 
not talk of being friendless. You are not. My mother — -my 
sisters.’ 

“ ‘ No, no, not now. She sent me off. Oh ! for only one 
friendly heart to feel and pity my desolation.’ 


ONLY A COMMA. 


141 


u ‘Miss Deering! Ellenor ! be comforted. There is some 
strange mystery concerning my mother’s actions. Yet, if 
all the world desert, I will be proud to be your friend. Try 
and be calm, and let us consider this estrangement with my 
mother. Now while I think of it, I imagine I already have 
a clue to it. Your sorrowful little word — so often repeated 
within the last few moments — may serve to explain it — the 
cause. Forgive me should I pain you, but I must be candid 
to help you. On my return I noticed your absence, and in- 
quired the cause. My mother answered that you and your 
mother were very ungrateful — that she had been deceived 
in both ; and when she found out her error, had filled your 
place by one more worthy. She was convinced of this 
by your never coming to ask an explanation when she dis- 
charged you. I need not tell I did not believe this of you. 
I determined to find you and learn the truth. For several 
days since I have been very much engaged, and found it 
almost impossible to get a leisure hour. Last night I pushed 
mother somewhat for something more explicit concerning 
your case, and learned it was from some remarks of yours 
made in the presence of Miss Davenport, relative to an 
amount paid you by mother for a piece of embroidery. 
Evelyn reported that you had entered the room, not notic- 
ing her, and said that ‘ Mrs. C. had paid you ten dollars 
only for that piece of work,’ and your mother answered 
ironically, 1 Just like her ! Very liberal and kind-hearted 
indeed.’ So you see, my friend, that little word only has 
caused your trouble. I know Evelyn’s faults and weakness, 
and I fear wickedness. I immediately divined how easily 
those words could be wilfully misunderstood, and I deter- 
mined to come to you to-day for the truth.’ * 

“ ‘ Oh, thank you for your kindness — your faith in my 
worthiness. I did use that word, but not as she said : I re- 
member well. Oh, how cruel! how unjust! how wicked! 


142 


ONLY A COMMA. 


and how I have suffered from it. I was so delighted with 
the liberal price paid, and returned joyfully exclaiming, 
“ Mrs. C. paid me ten dollars ! only think of it, mamma ! ” 
and her words were as you have said, but in a voice of grat- 
itude and truth. I called several times, but was always 
denied admittance. I saw a strange servant ; she would 
take up my name, then return with the answer, Mrs. C. was 
engaged and could not see me.’ 

*“ Enough, Miss Peering; it is as I suspected. Evelyn’s 
motive — my mother must know and feel how cruel she has 
been, and try to redress this terrible injustice. Good-bye for 
the present ; be comforted concerning the future.’ 

“He was gone. What a weight was lifted from her 
heavy heart. The mystery was explained. Two or three 
hours passed on, when she heard a carriage stop in front and 
then a knock on the door. 

“ ( Come in,’ she sadly said, and Mrs. C. was beside her. 

“ It is useless to detail the explanation, or how very much 
distressed Mrs. C. really was. She could not forgive her- 
self forjudging and condemning thus one without a chance 
for defence. She said they had had a dreadful scene, and 
a mortifying, sorrowful explanation, proving Evelyn’s false- 
hood and malice. A.rthur had forced it from her. 

“ ‘ Poor girl ! I loved her mother so much, and hoped so 
to see her the wife of my son. I fear now it is all over be- 
tween them. Perhaps it is for the best. He is so good and 
pure, I fear she would never make him happy. She has 
gone away to her uncle. I have just been to the depot with 
her. How, my child, you are to return with me, and take 
charge of the girls, who are home from school, and insist 
on remaining so, with you for their teacher. Hot a word of 
objection ; I afm the suppliant, pleading for forgiveness, to 
prove which you must come with us,’ said Mrs. C. 

“ Ellenor went, and remained for two years, beloved by 


ONLY A COMMA. 


143 


all. At the end of which time, Mrs. C., verifying her love 
and appreciation by the fervent blessing and warm, embrace 
with which she welcomed the orphan to her home and 
heart, a daughter , in name and affection.” 

“ Now, mamma, I know all. You are Ellenor Deering ; 
I guessed it when you let pa’s name slip out.” 

“ Yes, love, you have only heard of and known me as 
Nellie Moreton ; Ellenor Deering was my mother’s maiden 
name. Now, Carrie, let this story warn you against evil 
speaking, exaggeration, and particularly remember the com- 
mand, ‘ Thou shalt not bear false witness.’ Evelyn has 
had a severe reward, I fear, but I have not an unkind feel- 
ing for her. I shall call on her, and endeavor to be a friend 
to her. Her unkindness truly caused me great sorrow, but 
in the end greater joy. Your dear father has often said 
that he deeply feels the truth of those blessed words, 1 All 
things work together for good to those who love the Lord.’ n 


THE WARNING. 

BY FRANC.ES HENSHAW BADEN. 


“ A something light as air — a look — 

A word unkind or wrongly taken, 

Oh, love! that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.” 


Very beautiful was Clarice De Vere. But to-night the 
face, usually beaming with hope and joy, wears a look of 
discontent. There is a scarcely perceptible frown on the 
fair brow, a tear stealing down the rose-tinted cheek, which 
she hastily wipes away, and rising from her seat before the 
mirror, she. says : ^ 

“ No, Ninette, not a jewel to-night ; I will do very well. 
Now give me my gloves and fan.” 

“ Oh ! Mamselle ! do let me put this beautiful comb, or 
wind some pearls among your curls! You look so very 
simple. Something, please, to brighten up your dress a 
little! You look more as if you were dressed for a funeral 
than a fete. Just a few roses, then ! here are some beau- 
tiful buds ! ” pleaded the maid. 

“ I don’t feel bright, Ninette, and I don’t care to look so. 
But if you wish, put a few of those fuchsias in my hair.” 

With skilful fingers, the dark shining tresses were caught 
back, and the drooping, scarlet flowers, arranged gracefully 
in them. Ninette, with a satisfied look, exclaimed : 

“ Perfect now ! Beautiful ! See, mamselle ! But you 
are not well, I fear ! ” 

“ Yes I am ; but I think I am very cross this evening. 
Nothing more, my good Ninette. Now I am going down 

( 144 ) 


THE WARNING. 145 

to stay with uncle. When Monsieur Le Compte comes, let 
me know ! Is Mr. Herbert home ?” 

“I think he is. He went into his room just before you 
came in, and I have not heard him come out yet,” answered 
the maid. 

Yes, Clarice was cross — not satisfied with herself. That 
day she had chilled and disappointed a warm, trusting 
heart, and conscience was busy torturing her. She descend- 
ed the stairs, and knocked at the door of her uncle’s “ sanc- 
tum.” 

“ Receiving no answer, she turned the knob and entered, 
and stood unperceived for a few moments. 

Herman Waldridge sat gazing intently, spell-bound, on a 
miniature painting, which ever and anon he pressed to his 
heart. At length a deep groan burst forth, and then in a 
pleading voice, with raised eyes, he whispered : 

“ So young, so beautifully fair ! Oh, Father of mercy, 
shield her child from such a fate ! ” 

“ Uncle ! ” 

The soft sweet voice aroused him. Quickly concealing 
the miniature, he turned and asked : 

“ What is it, love ? You are not off? It is very early.” 

“No, uncle, I am not going for an hour or two. I dressed 
early, so as to spend some time with you. I fancied you 
were not well, you looked so sad. Now, uncle, tell me how 
I look to-night. Ninette was quite enraged at my simple 
attire.” 

He drew her toward him, gazed long and sadly on her, 
then sank back in his chair, bowed his head on his clasped 
hands, and seemed struggling with a great sorrow. 

“ What is it, uncle ? Have I grieved you ? Has Herbert 
dared to complain to you ? ” 

“No, no, Clarice, you do him injustice. It is nothing of 
the kind. I am glad you have come to me this evening. I 
9 


146 


THE WARNING. 


am very sad ; my mind has been with the past. Clarice, 
love, this is your mother’s birthday. You are very like her, 
particularly to-night. She would never be decked in jew- 
els ; always in flowers.” 

“Tell me of my mother, uncle; you have promised so 
often. Do, please ; this is surely a suitable time, her birth- 
day.” 

“Yes, love, I will tell yon all to-night. But you must 
first tell me what is the trouble with Herbert. He seems 
very much depressed, and I have noticed an increasing cold- 
ness in your manner to each other. Is he to accompany 
you to-night? ” 

“Uncle, Herbert has seen proper to take me to task 
several times lately for receiving the attentions of gentle- 
men, particularly since my acquaintance with Monsieur Le 
Compte. To-day I was, perhaps, too hasty. I said some 
cruel things, and ended by telling him he had no right to 
dictate to me, and most likely he never would have. He is 
not going to-night, I think,” answered Clarice. 

“ I had surmised as much ; I therefore had determined 
no longer to delay telling you the long-promised story. 

“ You have heard, my love, that you are mine only by 
adoption. Your mother was the child of my father’s dear- 
est friend. 

“Edith Maynard was bequeathed by her dying father to 
his friend’s love and care. Very dear was the little orphan 
to my father, sharing equally with my sister and me his 
love. 

“Little Edith was three years old when I first saw her; 
I was a wild, thoughtless boy of ten. My mother would 
say, ‘ Love the little one, Herman, and try to comfort and 
amuse her. She has no mother or father, and we must not 
let her feel her loss.’ 

“ She was a shy, timid little thing. So fair and frail, with 


THE WARNING. 


147 


large blue eyes, and a shower of golden ringlets, I thought 
her the most beautiful being I had ever seen. She was so 
different from my sister Isabel, a wild, fearless, brilliant little 
maid of five years.” 

“I think my care for the little Edith brought forth the 
first serious thoughts I ever had. My first and last thought 
of every day was how to please her. I could not bear to 
have any one take care of her, save myself. I taught her 
to read, draw, ride, and more than all, to love me. My 
father used often to say : 

“ ‘ How steady that wild boy has grown ! He has taken 
the charge of our little Edith, and really seems to be deep- 
ly impressed with the responsibility of his position.’ 

“My mother would answer by saying : 

“ 1 How devoted he is to her, and how the little one loves 
him.’ 

“ And they would smile approvingly. 

“ Yes, I thought I loved the little baby girl ; but I knew 
not what love was until in after years. 

“ I had to leave my darling for college life. I never fal- 
tered in my allegiance to my little one. This love of her 
kept me firm against temptation — free from viee. I felt I 
could not return and meet the gaze of her beautiful, loving 
eyes — not dare to touch her pure, sweet lips, if I was like 
too many of my associates. 

“ Every vacation, on my return home, the little one would 
meet me with a sister’s caresses. When she was little more 
than thirteen, I.left her, to travel. When parting, she clung 
wildly around me, crying, and begging father not to let me 
go — a perfect child still. 

“ I was gone two years. On my return, I could scarcely 
credit the change that short time had made. 

“ Oh, Clarice, you are beautiful, but your mother was 
more than that — she was like a beautiful dream ! I almost 


148 


THE WARNING. 


feared to move or speak, dreading lest the bright vision 
should melt away. I dared not caress that lovely maiden, 
as I was wont to do my baby sister. At length I became 
accustomed to her great beauty; but there was never again 
the free happy hours, as in childhood days. Then came the 
time when I knew what it was to love. After a time we 
understood each other, and pledged our love. I will show 
you now her picture, painted for me on her seventeenth 
birthday. Here it is.” 

And he drew the miniature from his bosom, opened it 
gazed a moment, and then passed it to Clarice. 

“ Yes, yes ; it is my own mamma, I know. These fea- 
tures call back the past. I can remember her, uncle — but 
not looking like this ; but oh, so pale and sad. Mother ! 
mother ! ” she sobbed, and pressing kiss after kiss upon the 
beautiful painting, she returned it, saying : 

“ Uncle, may I come and see this every day ? ” 

u Yes, love.” 

“ Now, uncle, tell me more. Quick, please ; I am so anx- 
ious to know all ! ” 

“ Twenty j^ears ago to-day that was painted. I think it 
was the happiest day of my life. For months after, I was 
in a delirium of joy. 

“ The next fall we all went to New Orleans, to spend a 
few weeks. 

“ The great beauty of Edith — and of my sister Isabel — 
drew around them many of the handsomest, talented, and 
eligible young men then in the city. Among them came 
Alphonse De Yere, a young Frenchman of noble birth, and 
of great fortune, rumor said. Very fine-looking and pleas- 
ant, I must admit he was ; one most likely to please the 
fancy and dazzle the eye of one like Edith, so unsophisti- 
cated and child-like. 

u I must hasten over this part of my trying task. After 


THE WARNING. 


149 


an acquaintance of three weeks with this young man, came 
a blow that almost crushed the life from out me. Edith 
had gone — eloped with De Yere ! 

“ How I lived I knew not. They placed in my hand a 
letter from her. She said she had mistaken the nature of 
her love for me until she met Alphonse ; then she knew too 
well. Much more she wrote of her gratitude and sisterly 
love, and asked to have her wardrobe sent to the Hotel 

de ; that she should sail with her husband for Paris in 

a few days. She ended by saying it would be better for us 
not to meet just now ; but when she returned, after a while, 
she hoped we would all welcome and forgive her, particu- 
larly for the unhappiness she had caused me. 

“ My heart withered as I read. It has never revived 
since. The world has never seemed the same. 

“ My father immediately enclosed her a draft for the 
amount, with interest, which was placed in his hands by 
her father, for her education and expenses — amounting to 
about twenty thousand dollars — never a dollar of which 
had my father used. He reared her as one of his own. 

“ One year after another passed, and we heard nothing 
from her. 

“ My health was very feeble. Isabel was going to Eu- 
rope with her husband and little Herbert, and insisted that 
the change would be beneficial to me, and I must go. I 
agreed. 

“ Seven years had rolled round since Edith left us. We 
were then in Paris. I had been thinking much of the 
past, and was very sad that day. Isabel coaxed me out for 
a walk. 

“ We were loitering in the garden of the Tuileries. 
Herbert was playing around ; when presently he came run- 
ning to me, saying : 

“ 1 Uncle, do see ! Here is a little baby girl selling 
flowers.’ 


150 


THE WA ENING. 


“ He drew forward a wee little thing of about four years 
old. 

“ The child’s face fascinated me. Where had I seen her 
before ? 

“ ‘ Isabel, look at this little one ; where have we seen 
her before ? Her face is very familiar, but I cannot place 
her.’ 

“ I looked up at my sister, waiting for her reply, when I 
noticed her face pale and flush alternately. At length she 
whispered : 

" ‘ Herman, look again ; this must be Edith’s child. It 
is the great likeness to her you see, but it is the difference 
in the coloring — Edith’s features and expression, Alphonse 
De Vere’s color of hair and eyes — this difference is what 
bewilders you. Speak to her ; ask her name, and where 
her mother is.” 

u I saw then the truth of Isabel’s words. The little girl 
surely was strangely like Edith, save the dark hair and 
eyes ; only the difference in coloring, as she had said. We 
questioned her, and no doubt was in our minds that we 
had found our lost Edith. 

“ Following the little girl, she led us to a miserable ten- 
ement-house, up numberless long stairs, and stopping before 
a door said, with an important little air : 

“ 1 Madam, Monsieur, this is me lady mamma’s room.’ 

“ I motioned Isabel to enter, I could not speak. I 
dared not approach her until I had in a degree subdued my 
agitation. 

“ I cannot tell how long I waited, when Isabel came out, 
and said : 

“ ■' Come in ; but for mercy’s sake try to be calm. Any 
excitement may kill her immediately. She is very ill. 
Come, she has asked for you.’ 

" Calling on Heaven for strength and help, I entered, 
and beheld my Edith. 


THE WARNING. 


151 


“ A wan smile lighted her face for an instant. I took 
her hand, bent over and pressed my lips to her forehead, 
and whispered : 

“ ‘ My darling sister.’ 

“It flashed in my mind that nothing I could say to her 
would express so quickly and perfectly that I had forgiven 
her and induce her to think I had not suffered so very 
much, and in short, calm and reassure her, at this title 
from me. 

“ Scarcely a trace of her glorious beauty remained. The 
golden hair lay in tangled, clammy masses. The once 
laughing blue eyes were wildly bright just then, burning 
with fever and excitement. Her features and form were 
terribly attenuated. It was too truly plain the hand of 
death was upon her. 

“Living in the most abject poverty; cared for only by a 
poor flower woman, whose heart was touched by the beauty 
and suffering of her neighbor, she gave up her employ- 
ment to nurse the sick one ; only sending out her bouquets 
by the little girl to sell. With the amount obtained so, and 
by the disposal of the few remaining articles of handsome 
clothing, Edith was provided with a few necessaries to sus- 
tain life. 

“We carried her with us to our hotel; surrounded her 
with every comfort and luxury; the best physicians were 
called.; but nothing could stay the cruel hand that was draw- 
ing her away. A broken heart, privation and suffering had 
done a speedy work. 

“ She lingered with us scarcely two weeks ; then passed 
away so quietly and sweetly, that I, clasping her hand, 
thought her sleeping. 

“ We learned from her that Alphonse was a mere adven- 
turer. He had squandered his all and hers, and finally was 
killed in a gambling saloon. After that terrible event she 


152 


THE WARNING. 


had done some little fancy work for her maintenance ; but 
soon her health gave away, and in two months was unable 
to rise from her bed. Soon after her marriage she had found 
out her dreadful mistake, and was so bowed with mortifica- 
tion and horror that she could not write and let us know of 
her fate. 

“Finally, she bequeathed her little daughter to my care 
and love. We laid her in a foreign land, raised a monument 
to mark her resting-place, and returned to our home, with 
the little one and the faithful flower woman, Ninette. I 
have been living my boyhood days over, watching Herbert’s 
devotion to my little Clarice. And now, my love, my lost 
Edith’s child will know how well I can sympathize with Her- 
bert in his present sorrow.” 

Clarice was weeping; she had been ever since her uncle 
placed her mother’s picture before her. She had drawn her 
cushioned seat near him, and sat clasping his hand. 

Ninette came to the door, and broke the spell of sadness, 
by saying : 

“ Monsieur Le Compte is in the drawing-room, ma’am- 
selle.” 

Clarice arose, quickly approached the door, hesitated, re- 
turned, and throwing her arms around her uncle’s neck, 
said : 

“ I know, my more than father, how severe a trial this has 
been to you. You have for me unveiled your wounded heart, 
and it has bled anew to-night. But I think you may rest 
easy. You have not suffered in vain.” 

Going to the door, she said : 

u Go, Ninette, and see if Mr. Herbert is in his room, and 
say I wish to see him a moment in the hall.” 

Herbert came slowly down the stairs, a mingled look of 
sorrow and surprise on his fine countenance. He stood wait- 
ing her pleasure. 


THE WARNING. 


153 


“ Herbert, please go with me to the drawing-room, to ex- 
cuse myself to Monsieur Le Compte. Uncle seems lonesome, 
and I will stay home with him to-night, if you will join us 
in his room,” she said. + 

And holding out her hand, it was clasped by Herbert, 
and descending the stairs, they entered the drawing-room. 

After greeting the young man, and politely bidding him 
be seated, Herbert withdrew to the far end of the room on 
some pretext, and Clarice said : 

“ Monsieur, you will have to excuse me this evening. 
Uncle is not well, and I have decided to remain with him.” 

“ Of course the young man was dreadfully disappointed, 
and declared he would not go either. 

“ I must beg you will; for many young ladies will miss 
you, and be sadly disappointed if you are not there. As for 
myself, staying home to-night is not only a duty, but a pleas- 
ure, to be able to cheer my uncle; and if Herbert will exert 
himself to assist me, I think I shall have a very pleasant 
evening.” 

Little more was said. The young man took his departure. 
The kind, but decided manner of Clarice made him feel very 
certain the “ good-bye” she bade him was not only for that 
night, but for ever ! 

“ Clarice, what am I to understand by this ? ” asked Her- 
bert, as soon as the door closed, on the departure of their 
guest. 

“That your Clarice is not quite as wicked as she tried to 
be to-day. I am tired of making so many people miserable. 
There are numberless girls sighing for young Le Compte’s 
attentions, for which I do not care a straw. Let him return 
to them. If I encouraged him longer, possibly I might 
make him a little unhappy. You are not feeling very joy- 
ous just now, and to end the list, 1 am not very well con- 
tent until I feel worthy of my dear noble Herbert.” 


154 


THE WARNING. 


Playfully putting his hand over her lips, he gently said : 

“ Hush ! Be true to your own pure heart, love, and we 
shall he very happy.” 

They went into Uncle Herman’s room, and carried with 
them a great relief to his anxious heart. 

Herbert never knew to what cause to attribute the great 
joy which broke in on his sadness, like a ray of sunshine 
through the darkest clouds, on that memorable night, and 
Uncle Herman kept his own counsel. 


SATED BY LOTE. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


" Yes, Good, though only thought, has life and breath— 
God’s life — and so can be redeemed from death ; 

And evil, in its nature, is decay, 

And any hour can blot it all away.” 


“ What a remarkable looking person that nurse of yours 
is, Nellie, ” said Mrs. Markham to her friend, Nellie Liv- 
ingston. 

“ Remarkable in what way ? For her plain, almost ugly 
face, I suppose,” replied Mrs. Livingston. 

“ Yes — that is it ; almost ugly, you say. Why, she is 
positively painfully bad looking ; indeed, I do not think I 
could have such a — I must say hideous person about me,” 
exclaimed her friend. 

“ Why, you do not really mean so ; look at her honest, 
clear eyes, her very pleasant mouth ; we do not see her 
ugly looks ; we see only the true, brave heart looking 
through her eyes, and know her patience and endurance. 
To us she is almost pretty, and the children love her (I 
sometimes thi^ik) better than me ” 

“ But that terribly ugly scar she has across her face. 
Did you know her before she received that wound ? ” ques- 
tioned Mrs. Markham. 

“ That scar does not make her look any the worse to us. 
On the contrary, it endears her the more, for it was re- 
ceived in our service. Most likely but for that, my little 
ones might have been motherless.” 

“ How was it ? Do tell me ; you know this is my first 

( 155 ) 


156 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


visit to you, except for a few hours, since you were first 
married, so this is the first time I have seen this woman. 
What is her name ? ” 

“Nora Parsons. She has been with us twelve years; 
indeed, I do not know what I should do without her. We 
do not look on her as a servant. She is as near to me as 
one of my sisters. I will tell you about her, and then you 
will know how she won my esteem and love : 

“ I was passing through the Protestant Asylum the first 
year of my marriage, for the purpose of obtaining one of 
the girls to send to my husband’s mother, living out of 
town a few miles. I was much interested in the institu- 
tion, and the matron, a ver} r worthy lady, was very kind in 
showing me the different objects of interest. As we were 
passing through a room where the girls were all either sew- 
ing or knitting, she stopped before a girl about fourteen 
years old, and said : 

“ ‘ You are very slow at your knitting, Nora. I told you 
that stocking must be finished this afternoon, and it does 
not look much like it now.’ 

u 1 Indeed, ma’am, I can scarcely see, my head aches so 
badly ; that is the reason I’ve done so little,’ replied the 
child. 

“ ‘ An excuse for idleness, I think,’ and passing on a few 
steps, she said to me, ‘ She comes of a very bad set. I fear 
I shall have much trouble with her. She is inclined to be 
stubborn, and rather hardened, I think.’ 

“ ‘No,’ I said, 1 not hardened, I am sure. I noticed her 
under lip quiver when she spoke, and from that, I know she 
has a sensitive nature. I never knew it to fail. There is 
something good in her, you’ll find out sometime. May I 
speak to her ? ’ I said. 

“ Having obtained permission, I returned to the girl 
and, taking from my cubar an orange, I said : 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


157 


“ ‘ I am very sorry your head aches/ and putting my 
hand on her head I found it very hot. ‘ Yes, I know you 
are suffering ; take this orange, won’t you ? and I will ask 
Mrs. Bland to let you go out and sit in the cool.’ 

“ She did not speak. I saw her heart was too full. I 
went and spoke to the matron. She returned with me, 
and said : 

11 1 Certainly, Nora ; put up your work. I did not know 
your head was aching very much. Go out and sit in the 
garden, or lie down, either.’ 

“ I gave her my little bottle of sal ammonia, and saying, 
( Be a good girl, dear/ l§ft the asylum. 

“ Eight years passed by, when one morning I was stand- 
ing at the basement-window, holding up the two youngest 
children to hear an organ-grinder, when I noticed a girl 
looking at the window very intently, and then coming up 
to the door, she pulled the bell. 

“ In a few moments the servant opened the room door, 
and said : 

“ 1 Some one to see you, Madam.’ 

“ ‘ What is it ? ’ 

“ 1 Do you want to engage a nurse, or help of any kind ? ’ 
she said. 

“ e No ; ’ I told her I had an excellent nurse just then, 
and three other servants I liked very well. 

“ ‘ I can sew nicely, and cut and fit. I wish you would 
take me. I want to live with you so much. Do please 
take me/ she pleaded. 

11 1 was surprised at her earnest manner, and said : 

“ 1 Why do you wish to live with me so much ? What 
do you know of me ? ’ 

“ She put her hand in her pocket, and drawing out a 
little smelling-bottle, said : 

u ‘ Don’t you remember this ? I am the girl you gave it 
to, years ago in the Asylum.’ 


'V; 


158 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


“ I recognized my little bottle, and soon called to mind 
the girl I had given it to. 

“ i You spoke kindly to me ; those gentle words were the 
first said to me since my mother’s death. You said I was 
not hardened ; that there was good in me ; and you bade 
me “ try to be good,” and I did try to do right and please 
Mrs. Bland ; and every day I prayed to God to bless her 
whose gentle words had broken the spell of evil that was 
creeping over me ; and see, I gained a good name.’ 

u 1 Where have you been staying since you left the Asy- 
lum ? How long have you been out of employment ? ’ I 
asked. 

“ 1 1 have been living with my brother, keeping house for 
him — but ’ — and she hesitated, then said : 

“ 1 He is not a good man, and I cannot win him from his 
bad ways ; so I have left him. Oh ! please let me live 
with you, I do not care for wages, only let me stay and 
serve you,’ and she caught my hand and held it clasped to 
her bosom. 

“ I did not know what to do ; I was considering it over, 
and had pretty much made up my mind to let her remain, 
when she began her pleading again. 

“ ‘Take me, do! just for one week, and then if I don’t 
suit you, send me away.’ 

“ 1 You shall' stay here for the present, and I will see 
what arrangement we can make for the future,’ I said. 

“If you could have seen the look of content and joy on 
her face then, you would not have thought her so ugly. 
When Albert came home, I told him all concerning Nora ; 
and after seeing her, he said : 

u 1 1 like her looks, and I think she may be of much ser- 
vice to you during my absence.’ 

“ Albert was to leave for Europe (on business for the 
firm) in the next steamer. 


SAVED BY LOVE. 159 

“The second day after Nora came, he started. After 
bidding ns good bye, he turned to her and said : 

“ ‘ Nora, take good care of my little ones/ 

“ 1 With God’s help, I will, sir/ she replied earnestly. 

• “ Then he smiled approvingly to me, and said : 

“ ‘ I am glad she is with you/ , 

“ One thing about her I could not understand. I could 
not induce her to go out of the house. Three or four times 
during the few days I sent her on errands, and instead of 
going, she would go and do the cook’s work, and send her 
out. At length I asked her the reason. She replied : 

“ i I will tell you the truth. I do not wish my brother 
to know where I am ; so I thought it best to remain in fbr 
a little while/ 

“ She slept in the nursery, next, to my room. The night 
Albert left, I could not help noticing her being very rest- 
less ; if I turned or moved, she would be in the room in a 
moment, and ask if I spoke. I do not think she touched 
her pillow that night. 

“The next evening several friends came in and stayed quite 
late, and having lost much rest the night before, I felt very 
sleepy, and scarcely lay down before I was off to dream- 
land. 

“ How long I slept, I know not ; I awoke in a great 
fright, and opening my eyes, I beheld by the dim light the 
most villainous face I ever saw. It told plainly of robbery, 
and if necessary, murder. I opened my mouth to scream, 
but I was speechless. 

“ 1 None of your screaming ; just he quiet and tell me 
where I can find your diamond jewelry and money ; your 
plate is too heavy, and we are in a hurry this time. Come, 
speak quick, if you don’t want to take a pill from this 
pretty box/ and he presented a pistol close to my face. 

“ I tried my best to speak and tell him what he wanted 


160 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


to know, any thing to get him away ; hut no sound could I 
utter ; I was almost dying with terror, not for myself, but 
for my little ones : my baby beside me. I pointed and 
looked over towards my bureau, to tell him where my 
jewel box was, when I beheld another man searching my 
drawers ; the wretch near me exclaimed again : 

“ ‘ Come, speak quick, or here goes/ and he raised his 
pistols. 

“ Oh ! the agony of those moments ; years, in suffering 
to me. Then came the short quick report of a pistol, the 
gas was put out, and I heard a rush into the room. 

“ Then came the awful curses of the one standing over 
me, as he exclaimed : 

“ 1 Discovered ! make tracks, Bill ! ’ 

u 1 I got the box, cut down the back steps/ whispered the 
other. 

“ ‘ Cut down, and cut through, if needs/ was the answer. 

“ Then again I heard a scuffle, heavy blows, and a voice 
exclaiming : 

“ ‘ You wild cat ! if you don’t let go of me, I’ll cut you 
with my knife — although I don’t like to hurt a woman.’ 

“ c Drop it Bill ! they are coming ; I’m off.’ 

“What more passed, I cannot say. When I became 
conscious, Nora was bending over me bathing my face ; she 
said : 

“ ‘ You are only frightened, thank heaven. Do not be 
worried, I have everything safe.’ I saw, her face was tied 
up ; I pointed to it. 

“ ‘ Only a scratch.; be still, all is right now/ she said. 

“ It was near day then. In a short time there came a 
ring at the hall door. 

“ Nora was nervous, and said : 

“ ( I had better look out of the window, had I not ? ’ 

“ I assented, and in a few moments she said : 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


151 


“ 1 It is a policeman ; he says there is a man with his leg 
broken, tying down at the basement door, and thinks prob- 
ably it is some one either coming to, or going from here, 
has fallen on the ice. What shall I do ? ’ 

“ 4 One of those dreadful men, probably/ I said. 

u 1 1 will go and look/ and she left the room. In a mo- 
ment or two, she returned. 

“ Poor girl, despair was marked on every feature. 

“ 4 Nora, m}^ child what is it ? 1 I asked. 

u 1 Fate ! fate ! Why did they not kill me, better that 
than this/ she said. 

“ ‘ What is it? Tell me, Nora. I will do anything for 
you. Speak, child, I owe you so much. What troubles 
you/ I asked. 

“ 1 Can you trust me so much as to let me tell the police- 
man to let that man remain here for a little while — till I 
tell you all ? ’ she said. 

“ 1 Yes ; go, and hurry back to me.’ 

“ Soon she returned, and dropping on her knees by the 
side of the bed, she sobbed piteously. 

11 ( Nora, tell me all. Let me know the worst. Who is 
that man ? ’ 

u 1 My brother/ she gasped forth. 

“ i What terrible mystery is this ? Oh ! girl, can it be 
possible ! ’ a dreadful thought came into my mind. Was 
she an accomplice ? — 4 that you came here to try — •' 

i( 4 To serve ar^l save you/ she meekly said. 

“ 4 Speak, tell mefcall ! J I demanded. 

“ 6 Lady, I told you I was living with mjr brother. I be- 
gan to mistrust him, to think he was not living honorably, 
but I had no proof of it. One night I was sitting up, 
waiting for his return. I threw myself on a lounge in the 
little sitting-room. I heard him coming in the door with 
10 


t 


162 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


some one with him. I do not know what possessed me to 
make believe I was asleep. 

“ ‘ I heard them whisper a plan of robbery. They had 
found out that the gentleman was going to leave town, and 
that there were diamonds and much of value in the house. 
My brother was a new hand, and not so bad as the other ; 
he objected at first, but finally agreed. Then I heard the 
name Livingston. I remembered the name ; it was marked 
on the little bottle. It was your name ; the name of her 
who had lifted me from the dark, hardened existence I was 
sinking into, who had with one sweet smile and gentle 
words opened the closed heart, and let in the soft, warm 
light, and finally made me a true woman. I listened on, 
and heard the street and number. 

“ ‘ First I thought I would plead with my brother, but I 
knew that would not do with the other ; then I determined 
to quarrel with him, on some pretext, and leave to seek my 
own living. I thought if I went off without some cause 
he would suspect I had heard them. This I did, and now 
you know all, — why I pleaded with you to take me. I 
had hoped to hear them before they got in, and frighten 
them off. Night before last was to be the night. You 
know I was awake all night, and so I could not keep awake 
the second night, although I tried so hard. I did not know 
I had been asleep until I heard the voices in your room; 
then I did the best I could. This is all I have to tell, ex- 
cept I had hoped my brother would escape and not be found 
out by you. Oh, mother ! mother ! look down from IJeaven 
and pity me. I tried my best to save your boy, but it is all 
over now/ she wept forth. 

“ I was deeply affected by this profound gratitude. And 
for what ? A few words ; for this she had risked her life. 
I must not be less noble than this poor girl. I had been 
taught what gratitude was, and must profit by the lesson, I 
thought. 


SAVED BY LOVE. 163 

“ I hastily arose, wrapped myself in my robe de cham- 
bre, and asked Nora : 

“ ‘ Has your brother seen you, does be know you are 
here ? ’ 

“ * No, I looked through the blinds and saw him/ she 
said. 

“ ‘Well then, perhaps he had better not know you are 
here, for the present, it might enrage him, and now, poor 
girl, rest easy, worry no more; put your trust in God, and 
ask his blessing on my efforts for you and your brother’s 
welfare. I am going to have him brought in and cared for. 
Do not fear exposure.’ 

“ I went down. The policeman was still below talking 
with the carriage driver. Fortunately the attempted rob- 
bery was not known by any but the cook, Mrs. Brown, who 
was awakened by the report of the pistol used by Nora. 
She was a very discreet woman, and I gave her to under- 
stand I did not wish her to mention a word of the affair. I 
knew I could trust her. She had been long in mother’s 
family before she came with us. 

“ I directed the men to bring the boy in — he was only 
about twenty. We soon made him as comfortable as possi- 
ble on the lounge in the sitting-room, and then I said to the 
policeman : 

u i Will you be kind enough to stop on your way and ask 
my physician, Dr. Arthur, to come here as soon as possible ? 
This boy will remain here for the present. He was leaving 
here last night, and probably slipped on the ice. He is 
known to me, so we will relieve you of any further trouble.’ 

“I wish you could have seen the look of mingled amaze- 
ment, doubt and anxiety j but not a word had he uttered 
all the time. 

“ I dismissed the driver, and then looked at the boy, and 
said : 


164 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


(t 1 1 know you and your purpose, last night, of course. 
You are not so badly hurt that you cannot speak, although 
you are suffering terribly. And we cannot tell what may 
be the extent of your injury. Your sin has met with a 
speedy punishment.’ 

u 1 What are you going to do with me ? get the doctor to 
patch me up, so as to be able to move me to the State’s pris- 
on ? ’ he doggedly asked. 

“ 1 No ; nothing of the sort. I shall get the doctor to do 
everything he can for you to enable you to go your way 
wherever you choose ; and I shall, in the mean time, do all 
I can to make you comfortable. I have no ill-will against 
you, believe me, and be sure you have nothing to fear from 
me. It has pleased Heaven to thwart your designs, and per- 
haps God has thrown you on my mercy for your salvation’s 
sake.’ 

“Just then Mrs. Brown came in with a cup of coffee. 
We raised him and gave it to him. Even then — so soon — • 
I saw this strange treatment to him was making its impress. 
His face was losing its hardened expression, and, in place, 
came one of patient suffering. 

“ Doctor Arthur came, pronounced it a compound frac- 
ture of the knee. After sending for his assistant, and work- 
ing over him for some time, they gave him an opiate, and 
left. 

i: I returned to Hora, telling her what I had done, and 
should Continue until he was better. 

“ I cannot describe her gratitude, for it was more of looks 
and actions than words. 

“ I learned from her something of their past life. 

“ Her father had been a very hard, harsh, but honest 
man ; the mother, a poor delicate creature, endeavoring in 
every way to soothe the harsh man and shield the children 
from his constant reproofs and punishments. William, her 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


165 


brother, was a really wild boy, loving play better than work 
or books, and this brought on him his father’s anger con- 
stantly. The mother would conteal his faults. This man- 
agement, of course, was the boy’s ruin. The father’s cruelty, 
the mother’s blind indulgence, paved the way for his future, 
evil life. Nora was three years older, and, when dying, the 
mother besought her to take care of, watch, and save her 
darling boy. 

“ Her father placed her in the asylum, and bound the boy 
to a trade, from which he soon ran away. 

“ In two years after the mother’s death, the father died ; 
and the boy, then free from all restraint, followed the exam- 
ple and advice of his bad associates. 

“ It was evident that this boy’s bad character was the re- 
sult of wrong management at home, aud I felt hopes of an 
entire different course of treatment having a happy result. 

“He had a tedious time of it, and much suffering. I 
would often see his eye3 fill, and the same tremulousness of 
the lip, that Nora has. Two weeks passed, and one day I 
asked him if he had any relations ? 

“ He told me of his parents being dead, and spoke very 
kindly of his sister, and ended by saying : 

“ ‘ If I had only taken her advice, I would not have been 
here.’ After a few moments he said : 

“ c He often heard mother say : “ God’s will be done ; ”■ 
and “everything happens for the best; ” and I know it is so 
now myself. Mrs. Livingston, I do not know how to talk to 
God — will you ask Him to help me to lead a different life ? ’ 

“ 1 1 have been, my boy, praying for you, and so has some 
one else. I will bring you one who has been the means of 
redeeming you, by her efforts, and God’s blessing,’ I replied. 

“ I soon sent Nora in. I did not witness their interview. 
In about an hour she came up to the nursery, and clasping 
one after another of the children to her bosom, said : 


166 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


“ ‘ Oh God will reward you in these little ones.’ 

“ She told me he knew all. How grieved he was at her 
face being so hurt. She would never admit her brother’s 
doing it, but I think he must have, to make her let go of 
him. The more I saw of William, the more thankful I 
was of having saved him ; I felt sure he would continue in 
his determination of endeavoring to be a good man. 

“ Albert returned home in two months. William was 
just getting about on his crutch. I told him I had Nora’s 
brother, and what I had done for him. I thought I would 
not tell him the way he received the accident just then, 
until, he had a chance of knowing him. I was fearful of 
the first impression. 

“ Albert has always thought, or is polite enough to say 
so, 1 that every thing his wife does, was all right.’ 

“ After my telling him about William, he said : 

“'And this is the way you have been amusing yourself, 
doing good. But this has been rather an expensive amuse- 
ment, has it not ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, rather,’ I replied, ‘ but it has been a great pleas- 
ure, and what is yours ? ’ 

“ 1 To please you,’ he gallantly said. 

“ * Well go on, Nellie darling, we have enough and some 
to spare.’ 

“ I think about ten days after Albert’s return, I went 
into the room, and found him and William talking very ear- 
nestly, the latter very much affected. 

“ ‘ Nellie, this boy has told me all concerning himself/ 
Albert said. 

“ 1 Oh ! do forgive my concealing it from you ; I intended 
to tell you all after you knew him,’ I exclaimed. 

ili As usual, you are all right,’ he smilingly said. 

“ ‘ But Nellie, I think it was rather risky. I believe, 
however, you have received your reward.’ 


SAVED BY LOVE. 


167 


u 1 Yes, sir, it was risky, few w T ould have done it/ Will- 
iam said. ‘ Oh, I wish to the good Lord there were more 
like her.’ 

“ Oh. sir ! if your missionaries would, instead of tracts, 
and sermons, drop a few kind, gentle words — if parents, 
teachers, employers and all having authority and influence, 
would give a kind smile, a gentle word to the erring, there 
would be less need of so many state prisons and houses of 
correction, less numbers of poor miserable beings perishing 
daily for want of a hand to lift them up from perdition. It 
costs so little. The value it may prove Eternity shall tell. ” 

“Now, my dear Mrs. Markham, ’ Pve told you why we 
love Nora.” 

“But her brother, where is he, what became of him?” 
asked her friend. 

“ Ask Albert, here he is ! Tell Mrs. Markham what Will- 
iam Parsons is doing.” 

“ My bookkeeper for five years past, and a noble fellow he 
is,” said Albert, warmly. 

“Well,” said her friend, “this is wonderful. Truth is 
stronger than fiction : and all this was done by gentle 
words.” 






THE BRIDE'S SECRET. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


And now they are standing face to face — 

Hath a dream come over that peaceful place ? 

One of those visions ghastly and drear, 

That makes her shrink with a livid fear ? 

She raised her hand to her wildered brow, 

“’Tis a strange delusion,” she murmured low, 

“’Tis but a dream,” and she strove to speak. 

But her heart was frozen — her voice was weak. — C. A. Wakfieuj. 


We were very lonely, mother and I, in the great old 
house where we had lived all my life. But home was now 
no longer home, since brother Willie left us. He had ac- 
cepted the charge of a church in a far-distant State, and 
oh ! how we missed his pleasant voice and bright, smiling 
face ! 

Mother’s health had failed very much since her boy 
left her ; I think she was grieving after him. With loss 
of health and strength came loss of courage. She grew 
very timid, and declared that it was quite dangerous for us 
to be alone in the house, with no protector save our old 
cook, Mammy Kate, and the big old dog Fido. I felt quite 
safe with these two to care for us. But mother insisted 
that she must either break up housekeeping and go to 
boarding, or get some gentleman to make his home with us. 

She spoke of this to our minister, and he suggested that 
we should take a young friend of his, who was then looking 
for a private house to make his home in. This young man 
was a perfect gentleman, and would be quite an acquisition 
to any family, he said. And so it was that Howard Lin- 


THE BRIDE’S SECRET. 


169 


dell came among us. I was twenty-three years old then, 
and' had never loved any man save father and Willie. 
Since lather’s death, Willie was all the world to me. No 
one had ever tried to make me love them, or I should, 
likely enough, long before that. 

I had no pretension to beauty, you might well know, 
or some one would have wooed me before I arrived at that 
age. Yet I was not positively ugly. My friends said I 
had a bright, pleasant face, a cheerful disposition ; that was 
all. 

I had never cared for my looks at all up to that time. 
But when our boarder had been with us a few weeks, I 
began to consult my mirror very often. I really wished 
very much to look well. I found out just the colors that 
suited me best, and wore no other. Yes, I coveted beauty 
then. When Howard Lindell first came to us, I thought 
him a man of middle age, but I heard him tell mother he 
was “just thirty.” He was so quiet and sad, he looked at 
least ten years older. I felt sure his life had been clouded 
by some great sorrow. 

I think what first made me like him was his attentive- 
ness to mother. He was so thoughtful and gentle. 

He left us for a few weeks on a trip North. Then it 
was I found out how dear he was to me. I scolded myself 
well for it. I said : 

“ Nell Grainger, you have not been prudent or wise. 
You have not been as careful and sensible as usual. You 
have let your heart slip away from you without any sort of 
assurance you will have one in return.” 

But it was no use then to scold or talk. Too late. I 
was really in love ! 

Howard came back ; and the unmistakable pleasure he 
showed on meeting me, made me feel that I had a strong 
hold on his heart, if it was not then entirely mine. 


170 


THE BRIDE’S SECRET 


That evening we were out on the portico. It was rather 
cool. Howard went quickly in the house, and bringing out 
a shawl, wrapped it about me, saying : 

“ I must take care of you. "YVhat should I do without 
you ? I cannot afford to have you sick ; these long eve- 
nings would be so lonely without your ‘ bright face near 
me!’” 

Months wore on. I felt quite sure Howard loved me ; 
yet he never told me so in words. 

He had been with us over a year, when we received a 
letter from Willie. He had married a few months after he 
left us ; and now he was coming home, that we might'know 
and love his wife, he said. 

“ Camille is far more beautiful than most women. Yet 
it was not that — it was her beauty of heart that won my 
love, and will, I am sure, yours.” 

As I read aloud that extract from my brother’s letter, 
Howard exclaimed, in a voice of much agitation : 

“Camille? how strange! I knew a Camille once, and 
she was very beautiful, but of course she cannot be the 
same. What was her maiden name ? 

“ Mason,” I replied. 

He looked relieved, but his face was very sad, and re- 
mained so all the evening. 

The day for their coming arrived. We were watching 
for them — Howard and I on the portico, mother at the 
parlor window. 

“You will have neither eye nor ear for me, Nellie, when 
your brother comes.” And he took my hand. I have 
often thought he was about to tell me then what I had 
yearned so long to hear — when a carriage drove rapidly up, 
and I was caught in my brother’s arms ! 

“ Welcome your sister, Nellie,” he said, and hastened in 
to meet mother. 


THE BRIDE’S SECRET. 171 

I turned to my brother’s wife. She was gazing wildly 
at Howard. 

“ Camille ! Great Heaven ! ” I heard him murmur. 

She was deathly pale, and seemed almost fainting. 

Putting out her arms to me, she said, pitifully : 

“ Oh, I am so tired ! Please take me in ! ” 

Beautiful she truly was, yet I could not love her — nay, 
nor pity her, although just then she seemed to need it so 
much. 

My brother had neither seen nor heard what had just 
transpired. He was clasped in his mothers arms, receiv- 
ing her joyful greeting. 

My mind was filled with dark forebodings. This woman 
I felt sure was in some way connected with Howard’s past 
— his sorrow. But how ? 

I went with her in, and after she had been welcomed by 
mother, she again complained of great fatigue. Willie said 
she must go and lie down and rest before tea, and carried 
her up to his old room, which Mammy Kate and I had 
been busy for a day or two making pretty and cosy. 

I had not seen Howard since I heard his* exclamation 
when he first saw my brother’s wife, but I knew he was up 
in his room. I heard him pacing the floor continually 
while I was attending to the arrangement of the tea-table. 
His room was just over the one we ate in. All was ready, 
and Kate rang the bell. I wondered if we should see him 
again during the evening. Most likely not, I concluded ; 
when the door opened, and Howard was beside me. 

He was very pale. The old look of sorrow, which had 
worn off so much within the last few months, was back 
again. Yes, and deepened, I thought. He came close to 
me, took my hand, and said : 

“ This may be the only chance I shall have for a few 
words with you before I leave. I am unexpectedly forced 


172 


THE BRIDE’S SECRET. 


to go away for a few weeks. I will write you, (with your 
permission), while I am absent.” 

Steps were descending the stairs. 

I nodded assent, and with a hasty " God bless you, dear 
Nellie,” he moved towards the window. 

Mother, Camille, and Willie came in, and then mother 
formally introduced our boarder. Willie cordially shook 
Howard’s hand, Camille merely bowed. A less observant 
witness would have supposed they had never met before. 
How jealously I watched every expression on the face of 
both of those two, so mysteriously connected in the past. 

We were through with our tea, and arose to go in the 
parlor. Willie offered his arm to mother, and smilingly 
said : 

“ Camille, I resign you to Mr. Lindell.” 

Any other than one as bitter as I was towards that poor 
miserable looking young creature, would have truty pitied 
her then. She cast the most beseeching look towards 
Howard. He approached, and offered his arm. Scarcely 
touching it, she walked by his side, I followed a little way 
behind, hut near enough to catch the hurried words of 
Camille : 

“ For Heaven’s sake, control yourself, and don’t tell 
them ! ” 

“ Fear not from me,” Howard replied quickly, and 
handed her in the parlor. 

Then how I almost hated her ! Howard remained in 
only a short time : and then excusing himself, on the plea 
of making ready for an early start in the morning, he bade 
us good night. 

I could plainly see the relieved expression pass over 
Camille’s face, when she understood that Howard was to 
leave us. That night I scarcely slept an hour. My brain 
was filled with my discovery of the former acquaintance 


THE BRIDE’S SECRET. 


173 


between Howard and Camille. Ob ! how were they con- 
nected ? 

When I arose in the morning he was gone. Camille 
came down to breakfast looking very much happier than 
the evening previous. Oh, she was beautiful ! and imme- 
diately won the heart of mother and old Kate. Yes, and 
Fido too ; he followed her about, and showed his devotion in 
every way that a dog could. Yes, all loved her save I. 
And Howard ; oh, what were his feelings towards her ? I 
could not divine. After breakfast 1 went into his room ; I 
always took care of it. 

Many pieces of paper were lying over the floor ; among 
them were very small pieces of manuscript, and in a 
woman’s handwriting. 

I stooped and picked up a few scraps ; on one was mille , 
another Ca. Ah, ’twas plainly her writing. I was wild, 
jealous, scarcely capable of judging right from wrong, or I 
would not have done as I did. Carefully collecting the 
tiny bits, I very easily fixed them all together. They were 
only written on one side. There it lay before me — possibly 
the secret! But no, I was not to know then. The little 
note did not divulge what I was almost crazy to know. It 
ran thus : 

“ My husband knows nothing of my past. He met me 
as Camille Mason, a poor governess ; loved me, and asked 
me to be his. 1 was dying for some loving, protecting arm 
to shelter me from the hard, cruel world. I dared not 
reveal the truth. I feared lie would fly from me. I have 
been so happy the past few months, until seeing you 
brought back the terrible past. Oh, Howard, as you hope 
for mercy from Heaven, show it to me. To lose my hus- 
band’s love would kill me ; keep my secret Camille.” 

I hardly remember anything that happened after reading 


174 


THE BRIDE S SECRET. 


the note. I was not feeling well, I know. From Mammy 
Kate I gathered what transpired the next three weeks. 

She says I seemed quite sick and feverish the night after 
Howard went away, and the next day was unable to get 
up. That Willie insisted on mother sending for our doctor, 
saying he did not like my symptoms. I grew rapidly 
worse, and the doctor shook his head. That I was fearfully 
ill, all felt too well. Kate and Camille would alternate 
sitting up with me ; and one night, when Camille was be- 
side me, I was raving in fever, talking wildly. Kate 
thought Camille became alarmed, and awoke her, saying : 

“ Get up, mammy, I can stay here no longer. Her 
words are killing me. Oh, try and stop her talking ! Do 
not let any one else hear her.” 

I was talking about Howard and Camille ; but what, 
Kate could not understand. 

Camille took care of me no more after that night. A 
premature illness seized her. A little bud bloomed on 
earth only to fade and pass away. The young mother was 
childless. For many days she laid ill, just hovering be- 
tween life and death. But we both lived on, contrary to 
all expectations. Camille, in her fever had talked as 
wildly as I. My brother learned there was some secret 
that his wife was so anxious to conceal from him, and that 
Howard Lindell was in some way connected with it. But 
even in her wildest delirium she did not divulge the nature 
of it. 

I was gaining strength fast, and could get out on the 
porch on which my room opened, when one day Willie 
came in. His usually handsome, cheerful face was worn 
and haggard from long attention by the sick-bed, and prin- 
cipally, I think, from the doubts clouding his mind. I 
could not help exclaiming : 

"Willie, are you too going to be ill? You look so 
sick ! ” 


the bride’s secret. 175 

“ No, dear, it is only anxiety. Now that Camille and 
you are both getting well, I shall get rested, and God 
grant, relieved too. Camille is quite strong to-day, and has 
sent me here to bring you to her. She wants to see you 
so much.” 

I would have refused; hut for fear of distressing Willie, 
allowed him to help me in. 

Poor thing ! She looked so pale, so sad. For a moment 
only, my heart softened as I gazed on her. I approached 
and kissed her for the first time. 

“ Thank you, dear Nellie, I feared you hated me,” she 
said. 

Those words reminded me of what she had caused me to 
suffer, and my heart grew hard again. 

u Sit down, dear,” she said. “ I have sent for you to 
hear what I am going to tell my husband. The secret I 
have so carefully tried to hide from him has made you 
suffer, and it is only due that you should hear the whole 
history of my past. 

“ Howard Lindell and I were raised near together, see- 
ing each other daily. His father and mine were intimate 
friends — partners in the same large mercantile firm. How- 
ard was a few years older than I. We were both the only 
children of our parents, so it entered their minds that we 
were born for one another, and they determined to unite us 
when we were of suitable age. We loved each other only, 
I think, because we had no chance of loving any one else. 

u The day of our marriage was fixed, and very near. I 
felt sure that my father had been for some years living in 
a style beyond his means. I knew he was in very comfort- 
able circumstances, but his expenditures were fearful. The 
day before the one appointed for the wedding, old Mr. Lin- 
dell ventured an expostulation with my father. Then 


176 THE bride’s SECRET. 

there ensued a fierce quarrel ; harsh, threatening words 
followed; but after a while they both became calmer, and 
parted, seemingly good friends again. The next day they 
met pleasantly, as usual. 

“We were to be married in the evening. We were all 
dressed, and had proceeded to the drawing-room. The min- 
ister arose and approached us, when some one whispered : 

“ ‘ Wait : Mr. Lindell has not come ! ’ 

“ My attendant and I entered the library adjoining, to 
wait. 

“ Howard seemed surprised, and said ‘ that his father was 
quite ready,’ and drawing on his gloves when he left. Sev- 
eral minutes passed, and still he came not. Howard left me 
to send some one over to his home, to find out what detained 
him. My father was in the parlor with his guests. 

“ Many more minutes passed and they came not, neither 
Howard nor his father. A little while longer, and I heard 
a hurried movement in the parlors — many rushing out — 
and then the terrible words : 

“ ‘ Yes, murdered. ’ ” 

And here poor Camille seemed almost exhausted. It was 
a terrible trial for her to go back to that dreadful day. I 
felt for her truly then. Brother begged her to stop; not tell 
any more; to wait until she was stronger. 

“ Ho, no,” she answered; “ I have suffered too much, and 
caused others to suffer so severely by my silence ; I must 
finish. 

“ I heard those terrible words, and then Howard rushed 
madly in, exclaiming : 

“ 1 My dear good father is dead ! dead ! ’ 

“ I fainted. Of course the marriage was postponed. 

“The next day I learned that Mr. Lindell had been found 
murdered in his library, and robbed of a very large amount 


the bride’s secret. 177 

he had drawn from the hank that day. Many knew of the 
quarrel between my father and the murdered man. Suspi- 
cion pointed toward my dear parent. I must hurry over this. 
Oh, agony ! The next day he was taken from me. In a 
few weeks more, tried, found guilty, aud condemned to die. 

A great effort was made by the first men of the city, headed 
by Howard, for the commutation, at least, of the punish- 
ment ; the fact of all the evidence being entirely circum- 
stantial, being a strong feature in his favor. The sentence 
was changed to imprisonment for life. I only saw Howard 
once after that, until the day I came here. We both felt 
too well that a union between us was impossible. He assis- 
ted my father’s lawyer to settle up our business, and placing 
in my hand a few hundred dollars, our all, he bade me fare- 
well. I was to go to a brother of my father’s to find a home. 
Leaving most of the money with my father to purchase some 
comforts beyond the prison fare, I went to my uncled. But 
they were not kind. I was daily made to feel my position. 

I endured this as long as possible, and then I left for a home *> 
among strangers in a distant State. I answered an adver- 
tisement for a governess ; and as my uncle was quite will- 
ing to be relieved of a constant reminder of the disgrace 
brought on him, he readily enabled me to secure the posi- 
tion. 

“ He suggested my adopting my mother’s maiden name. 

I gladly seized the idea. And so he gave me a letter of re- 
commendation, as having been a resident of his family for 
over a year, and he took pleasure in aiding me to attain a 
position I was so worthy to fill. He was a man widely 
known, and of considerable influence. I was accepted, and 
entered my position. In this family I remained but a short 
time — a few months. They were coarse, uneducated per- 
sons ; and added to this, I had the misfortune to please the 
11 


178 the bride’s secret. 

eye of the son, a young man of considerable more refinement 
than his parents. He was very urgent in his attentions, and 
my only chance of relief was in going away. Again my un- 
cle’s letter found me a home, the location being quite un- 
known either to him or my late employers. Here it was I 
met my husband. Yes, Willie, when I found the chance of 
securing love, safety, protection, I dared not reveal the truth. 
Who and what was I ? what the world called me : a mur- 
derer’s daughter! although I never believed my father 
guilty. Yes, you married me under a false name. I feared 
you would fly from me — that you would not link your fair, 
pure name with such as mine. Now you know all. 

And Camille ceased. I went and knelt beside her, wait- 
ing for Willie to give me a chance to give her my love and 
sympathy ; both were hers then. 

Willie still held her clasped in his arms, and saying: 

“Oh, you did not know my heart. I would have loved 
you more if possible, for your sorrow. I would have taken 
you before the whole world! Why did you not trust me? 
But even yet I know not what was your name.” 

“ Camille Osborn,” she whispered. 

“ Osborn ! Camille, speak again ! Great Heaven ! Can 
it be ! Your father’s name ? Speak quick, child.” 

“ Oliver Osborn,” she whispered. 

“ Oh ! Camille why did you not have confidence in your 
husband. Do you remember, a few weeks before our leaving 
home, my being sent for to attend a dying man ? And when 
I returned home, and commenced telling you I had heard 
a murderer’s dying confession, you grew terrified, and would 
not let me go on ? ” 

“ Yes, yes,” she whispered. 

“That man was Mr. Lindell’s murderer. He confessed 
having seen Mr. Lindell draw the money from the bank, and 


THE BRIDE S SECRET. 


179 


it was to secure it that he had murdererd him. I immedi- 
ately drew up in writing his statement, had it signed and 
witnessed, and sent to the Governor of the State. Long be- 
fore this your father is free, and probably hunting you. I 
must write to your uncle and father immediately.” 

“ Thank God,” she whispered, but was too feeble to say 
more. 

On returning to my room, I went to my desk to get a pa- 
per for Willie to write. There I found a letter from How- 
ard. In that he told me he loved me. He should return 
in a few weeks, but I must answer his letter directly, and 
give him a few words of hope. Two weeks had passed since 
it came. During my illness it had been forgotten. 

While I was joyfully reading it over and over again, Kate 
came up, saying : 

“ Massa Howard Lindell down stairs ; wants to see you 
quick.” 

I hurried down as fast as my feeble strength permitted, 
to see him. He looked at me a moment, and then caught me 
in his arms. 

“ Kate has told me how ill you have been. I was very 
near losing you. I shall take you under my own care very 
soon. Shall I not ? You got my letter ? ” he said. 

“ Only just now.” 

“ And your answer ! ” 

I did not speak. My hand was still in his. He seemed 
perfectly satisfied. 

“ Where is Camille and your brother ? I have her father 
out on the porch. You shall hear all very soon, darling. 
You will not be jealous ? ” 

“Ho, no; not now. I do know all. We all have heard. 
I must hasten and give her the blessed news.” 

Father and daughter were soon clasped in each other’s 
arms. 


180 


THE BRIDE’S SECRET. 


Poor Camille felt how much suffering her want of confi- 
dence in her husband had caused us all, and she had received 
a hard lesson from it. 

We have been married many years. I never have been 
troubled with illness caused by jealousy since ; my brother’s 
wife and I being converts and firm believers in second 
love, knowing full well that it brings pure and lasting happi- 
ness if accompanied by full faith and perfect confidence. 





% 


AUNT HENRIETTA’S MISTAKE. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


“ Before thy soul, at this deep lottery, 
Draw forth her prize ordained by destiny, 
Know that there’s no recanting a first choice; 
Choose then discreetly.” 


“ Heigh-ho ! This is Valentine’s day. Oh, how I would 
like to get a Valentine ! Did you ever get one, aunty?” 
said little Etta Mayfield. 

u Yes, many of them. But not when I was a child. In 
my day, children were children. You get a Valentine! 
I’m e’en a’most struck dumb with astonishment to hear you 
think of such things. Go, get your doll-baby, or your sam- 
pler, and look on that. Saints of Mercy ! It seems only 
yesterday you were a baby in long clothes,” answered Miss 
Henrietta Mayfield, a spinster of uncertain age; but the 
folks in the village, who always knew everything, declared 
she had not owned to a day over thirty-five for the last ten 
years. This, if true, was quite excusable, for Miss Henri- 
etta’s little toilette glass reflected a bright, pleasant, and 
remarkably youthful face. 

“ I’m almost seventeen, aunty, and I’m tired of being 
treated like a child,” said Etta, with a pout of her rosy lips. 

u Ten years to come will be plenty time enough for you 
to think of such things. A Valentine, indeed! I’d like to 
know who is to send one to you, or to any one else. There 
are only three unmarried men in our village; which of 
them would you like for your Valentine: Jake Spikes the 

( 181 ) 


182 aunt Henrietta’s mistake. 


blind fiddler, Bill Bowen the deaf mail-boy, or Squire 
Sloughman ? If the Squire sends a Valentine, I rather 
guess it will be to me. Oh, I forgot! There’s the hand- 
some stranger that boarded last summer with Miss Plimp- 
kins. I noticed him at church, Sunday. Come down to 
make a little visit, and bring Miss Plimpkins a nice pres- 
ent ag’in, I guess. He is mighty grateful to her for taking 
such good care of him while he was sick. A uncommon 
handsome man. But taint a bit likely he’ll think of a baby 
like you. He is a man old enough to know better — near 
forty, likely. He was monstrous polite to me; always 
finding the hymns, and passing his book to me. And I 
noticed Sunday he looked amazing pleasing at me. Land ! 
it’s ten o’clock. You’d better run over to the office and get 
the paper. Ho, I’ll go myself. I want to stop in the store, 
to get some yarn and a little tea.” 

Miss Henrietta hurried off, and little Etta- pouted on and 
murmured something about : 

“People must have been dreadful slow and dull in 
aunty’s young days,” and then her thoughts wandered 
to that same handsome stranger. 

She too had seen him in church on Sunday, and knew 
well how the rosy blush mantled her fair face when she saw 
the pleasant smile she had hoped was for her. But she 
might have known better, she thought; such a splendid 
man would never think of her. She would be sure to die 
an old maid, all on account of that dark-eyed stranger. 

“ Has Bill got in with the mail? ” asked Miss Mayfield. 

u Yes, Miss ; here’s your paper what Bill brought, and 
here is a letter or Valentine what Bill didn’t bring. It’s 
from the village,” said the little old postmaster, with a 
merry laugh. 

Yes, no mistaking, it was a Valentine, directed in a fine 
manly hand to Miss Henrietta Mayfield. “ From Squire 


aunt Henrietta’s mistake. 183 


Sloughman,” thought Miss Henrietta. “ He has spoken, or 
rather written his hopes at last.” But no, that was not his 
handwriting. 

Miss Mayfield stepped out on the porch, carefully opened 
the envelope, and glanced hurriedly over the contents, and 
then at the signature — Arthur Linton. 

“Well, well, who would have thought?” said she ; “that 
is the name of the handsome stranger! Just to think of 
his really taking a liking to me. Stop ! may be he is a 
sharper from town, who has heard of my having a little 
property, and that’s what he’s after. I’ll read his Valentine 
over again : 

“ Do not think me presumptuous, dear maid, in having 
dared to write you. Ho longer can I resist the continued 
pleadings of my heart. I have loved you ever since your 
sweet blue eyes, beaming with their pure loving light, met 
my gaze. I have seized the opportunity offered by St. Val- 
entine’s day to speak and learn my fate. I will call this 
evening and hear from your dear lips, if I shall be permitted 
to try and teach your heart to love, 

“ Arthur Linton.” 

“Well, truly that is beautiful language. It is a long 
day since any body talked of my blue eyes. They were 
blue once, and I suppose are so still. Well, he writes as 
if he meant it. I’ll see him, and give him a little bit of 
encouragement. Perhaps that seeing some one else after 
me will make the Squire speak out. For six years he has 
been following me. For what? He has never said. I 
like Squire Sloughman — (his name should be fcman.) I’ll 
try and hasten him on with all the heart I’ve got left. The 
most of it went to the bottom of the cruel ocean with my 
poor sailor-boy. Ah ! if it had not been for his sad end, I 
would not now be caring for any man, save my poor Willie. 


184 aunt Henrietta’s mistake. 

But it is a lonesome life I am living — and it’s kind of natu- 
ral for a woman to think kindly of some man ; and the 
Squire is a real good fellow, and, to save me, I can’t help 
wishing he would speak, and be done with it. 

“ This Valentine may be for my good luck, after all.” 
Miss Henrietta’s thoughts were swift now, planning for the 
future ; her feet kept pace with them, and before she knew 
it, she was at her own door.” 

“ Why, aunty, how handsome you do look ! your cheeks 
are as rosy as our apples,” said Etta. 

“ Is that such a rarity, you should make so much of it ? ” 
answered Miss Henrietta. 

“ No, indeed, aunty. I only hope I may ever be as good- 
looking as you are always. — Did you get your yarn and 
tea ? ” 

“ Land ! if I hain’t forget them ! You see, child, the 
wind is blowing rather fresh, and I was anxious to get 
back,” she answered her niece ; but said to herself, “ Hen- 
rietta Mayfield, I am ashamed on you to let any man drive 
your senses away.” 

“Never mind, Ettie ; you can go over and spend the after- 
noon with Jessie Jones, and then get the things for me,” 
she continued, glad of an excuse to get Etta away. 

Miss Henrietta was very particular with her toilet that 
afternoon, and truly the result was encouraging. She was 
satisfied that she was handsome still. 

It was near dark when she saw the handsome stranger 
coming up the garden walk. 

“ Did Miss Henrietta Mayfield receive a letter from me 
to-day ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, sir ; walk in,” answered Miss Henrietta, who, 
although quite flurried, managed to appear quite cool. 

“ This perhaps may seem very precipitate in me, and I 
have feared perhaps you might not look with any favor on 


aunt Henrietta’s mistake. 185 


my suit. Do, dear lady, ease my fears. Can I hope that in 
time I may win the heart I am so anxious to secure ? ” 

“Ahem — well, I cannot tell, sure. You know, sir, we 
have to know a person before we can love him. But I must 
confess 1 do feel very favorably inclined towards you.” 

“ Bless you, my dear friend ; I may call you so now, until 
I claim a nearer, dearer title. If you are now kindly dis- 
posed, I feel sure of ultimate success. I feared the differ- 
ence in our ages might be an objection.” 

“ No, no ; I do not see why it need. It is well to have a 
little advantage on one side or the other. But, my dear 
friend, should you fail to secure the affection, you will not 
think unkindly of your friend.” 

“ No ; only let me have a few weeks, with your continued 
favor, and I ask no more. Many, many thanks,” and seiz- 
ing her hand, he pressed it to his lips. 

“ Will you not now allow me to see my fair Henrietta ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Oh, I have been a little flurried, and did forget it was 
quite dark. I’ll light the lamp in a minute.” 

Etta’s sweet voice was now heard humming a song in the 
next room. She had returned from her visit, and as Miss 
Henrietta succeeded in lighting the lamp, her bright face 
peeped in the door, an*d she said : 

“ Aunty, Squire Sloughman is coming up the walk.” 

“Bless her sweet face! There is my Henrietta now!” 
exclaimed the visitor, and before the shade was adjusted on 
the lamp, she was alone. The handsome stranger was in 
the next room with — Etta ! 

A little scream, an exclamation of surprise from Etta, 
followed by the deep manly voice of Mr. Linton, saying : 

“Dearest Henrietta, I have your aunt’s permission to 
win you, if I can.” 

“ Henrietta ! Little baby Etta ! Sure enough that was 


186 aunt Henrietta’s mistake. 


her name too. "What an idiot she had been!” thought 
Henrietta the elder. “ Oh ! she hoped she had not exposed 
her mistake ! Maybe he had not understood her ! ” 

But Squire Sloughman was waiting for some one to admit 
him, and she had no more time to think over the recent con- 
versation, or to determine whether or not Mr. Linton w r as 
aware of her blunder. 

Squire Sloughman was cordially welcomed, and after be- 
ing seated a while, observed : 

“ You have got a visitor, I see,” pointing to the stranger’s 
hat lying on the table beside him. 

“ Yes, Etta’s got company. The stranger that boarded 
at Miss Plimpkins’ last summer. He sent Etta a Valen- 
tine, and has now come himself,” returned Miss Henrietta. 

“ A Valentine ! what for ? ” 

“ To ask her to have him, surely. And I suppose he’ll 
be taking her off to town to live, pretty soon.” 

“And you, what will you do? It will be awful lonely 
here for you,” said the Squire. 

“Oh! he’s coming out now,” thought Miss Henrietta. 
And she gave him a better chance by her reply : 

“Well, I don’t know that anybody cares for that. I 
guess no one will run away with me.” 

But she w r as disappointed ; it came not, what she hoped 
for, just then. Yet the Squire seemed very uneasy. At 
length he said : 

“ I got a Valentine myself, to-day.” 

“You ! What sort of a one ? Comic, funny, or real in 
earnest ? ” asked Miss Henrietta. 

“ Oh ! there is nothing funny about it — not a bit of 
laugh ; all cry.” 

“ Land ! a crying Valentine ! ” 

“ Yes, a baby.” 

“ Squire Sloughman ! ” said Miss Henrietta, with severe 
dignity. 


aunt Henrietta’s mistake. 187 

“ Yes, my dear Miss Henrietta ; I’ll tell you all about it. 
You remember my niece, who treated me so shamefully by 
running away and marrying. Well, poor girl, she died a 
few days ago, and left her baby for me, begging I would do 
for her little girl as kindly as I did by its mother.” 

“ Shall you keep it ? ” asked Miss Henrietta. 

“ I can’t tell ; that will depend on some one else. I may 
have to. send it off to the poor-house ! ” 

“ I’ll take it myself first,” said his listener. 

“ Not so, my dear, without you take me too. Hey, what 
say you, now ? I tell you, I’ve a notion to be kind and good 
to this little one ; but a man must have some one to help 
him do right. Now it depends on you to help me be a bet- 
ter or a worse man. I’ve been thinking of you for a half- 
dozen years past, but I thought your whole heart was in 
little Etta, and maybe you wouldn’t take me, and I did not 
like to deal with uncertainties. Now Etta’s provided for 
with a Valentine, I’m here offering myself and my Valen- 
tine to you. Say Yes, or No ; I’m in a hurry now.” 

“Pity but you had been so years ago,” thought Miss 
Henrietta ; but she said : 

“ Squire Slough man, I think it the duty of every Chris- 
tian to do all the good she can. So, for that cause, and 
charity towards the helpless little infant, I consent to — 
become — ” 

“Mrs. Sloughwoman — man I mean,” said the delighted 
Squire, springing up and imprinting a kiss on Miss Henri- 
etta’s lips. 

“ Sloughwoman indeed ! I’ll not be slow in letting you 
know I think you are very hasty in your demonstrations. 
Wait until I give you leave,” said the happy spinster. 

“ I have waited long enough. And now, my dear, do you 
hurry on to do your Christian duty ; remembering particu- 
larly the helpless little infant needing your care,” said the 
Squire, a little mischievously. 


188 aunt Henrietta’s mistake. 


Miss Henrietta never knew whether her mistake had 
been discovered. She did not try to find out. 

In a short time there was a double wedding in the vil- 
lage. The brides, Aunt Henrietta and little Etta, equally 
sharing the admiration of the guests. 

Mrs. Sloughman admitted to herself, after all, it was the 
Valentine that brought the Squire out. And she is often 
heard to say that she had fully proved the truth of the old 
saying, “ It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.” 


FALSE AND TKUE LOYE. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


“ Though round her playful lips should glitter 
Heat lightnings of a girlish scorn, 

Harmless they are, for nothing bitter 
In that dear heart was ever born ; 

That merry heart that cannot lie 
Within its warm nest quietly, 

But ever from the full dark eye 
Is looking kindly night and morn.” 

“My son, I do not believe Valeria Fairleigh has ever a 
serious thought ; nothing beyond the present enjoyment, 
or deeper than the devising of a becoming attire for some 
approaching dance or festive occasion. Believe me, she is 
not the girl for a minister’s wife. You have chosen as your 
vocation the work of God ; in this you should be sustained 
by your wife : one who would enter into your labor with en- 
ergy of mind and body. She should have a heart to sympa- 
thize not only with her husband, but his charge. I tell you, 
David, a man’s success and popularity in his ministry de- 
pends very much on the woman that he has chosen to be his 
helpmate. Had your mother been other than she is, I truly 
think I should have sunk under the many trials during the 
years of my work.” 

“ But, father, if report speaks truly, my mother was not a 
very sedate maiden. I have heard many a tale of her wild 
days. Pardon me, but I do not think you are judging Miss 
Fairleigh with your usual benevolence and charity. I know 
she is a very gay, fun-loving girl, but I believe she has a 
warm, true heart. I have never known her to do a heart- 

( 189 ) 


190 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


less action, or turn a cold ear on any needing her sympa- 
thy ” 

i( Lovers are prone to see only the good and beautiful/* 
replied his father. “ Of course, my son, I do not wish or 
expect to decide this matter for you ; only to influence you, 
for your happiness. Will you promise me this much : do 
not commit yourself until you have seen more of Valeria and 
in some degree test her worth. How is it that a man of 
such deep thought, hard study, and so earnest and devoted 
to his work, should place his affections on one so very dis- 
similar ? It is very strange to me, particularly as in the 
same house is her cousin, Miss Bland — just the woman for 
you. A well cultivated, thoroughly disciplined mind, with 
great energy and industry. You know well, of charities 
her name is always among the first ; ready with time and 
money to help in good works. Why could you not have 
loved her ? Why did your heart wander from the right ? 99 

“ Oh, father ! you ask why the heart wanders ! I know 
too truly love cannot be tutored ; but will drag away the 
heart — often against our better judgment, and wander with 
it where it will — sometimes dropping on the bosom of a 
calmly gliding river ; again amid the turbulent waves of a 
dark and stormy sea. Heaven grant that this last may not 
be the fate of mine. The true reason, however, that I be- 
came attached to Miss Eairleigh I think is this : I was so 
accustomed to, so tired of dignified, sedate and 1 well-disci- 
plined ’ young ladies, who always put on church behavior 
and talk only of church matters when the minister is near, 
that when I met her she was so different, such a bright, 
merry, child of nature, I was charmed ! — yes, I may say, re- 
freshed, rested. After the many sad and trying duties of 
our calling, father, we need some pne like Vallie Fairleigh 
to call forth a reaction of the mind. But you shall have 
the promise. I will not advance a step further until I know 
her better.” 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


191 


A few days after this conversation David Carlton was sit- 
ting in his study, when his father entered, saying : 

“ David, I have a letter from home, hastening my return. 
So I shall have to cut my visit a little short. I would go 
away much happier, if my mind was relieved about Miss 
Fairleigh. I wish I could think her worthy of the position 
you would place her in. I have noticed you much since our 
conversation on that subject, and I am sure you are much 
attached to her. I have an idea to put her to a test , not 
only concerning her better feelings, but to prove the amount 
of influence you have over her. 

“ Listen : This evening is appointed for the meeting to 
raise funds and make arrangements relative to sending out 

a missionary to the Indians. There has (you tell 

me) been but little interest awakened among your people on 
this subject. Now, if you can induce the young folks to 
take hold of this, it will be all right. This is also the even- 
ing of Monsieur Costello’s Grand Masquerade and the opera 
of Maritana. I called on Mrs. Fairleigh about an hour ago. 
The ladies were discussing these amusements. Miss Bland 
is very anxious to see that particular opera, and was trying 
to persuade Valeria to go with her. Mrs. Fairleigh posi- 
tively forbade the ball ; so when I left the arrangement was, 
Miss Bland, Mrs. Fairleigh and the gentlemen were going 
to enjoy the music, and Valeria is to remain home ; but I 
very much fear this she will not do. Now, David, go and 
ask her to accompany you — urge her; tell her how much 
good her influence might exert, and so on. If she consents, 
I have not another word to say about your loving, wooing 
and marrying her, if you can. Should she not consent, then 
ask Miss Bland. I know how anxious she is to see Mari- 
tana. Now try if she will resign this pleasure for the sake 
of doing good. Of course you must riot let her know you 
have previously asked heT cousin. Will you do it ? It can 
do no harm, and may be productive of much good.” 


192 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


u Yes, father, I will put her to the test. But I will not 
promise that the issue shall decide my future course. I 
shall be grieved and mortified if she does not consent, hut 
not without hope. I know she is good, and we will find it 
yet.” 

An hour more found David Carlton awaiting in the 
drawing-room the coming of Valeria. 

Fortune favored him thus far. 

“ Miss Bland and Miss Fairleigh were out, hut would be 
hack soon. Miss Valeria was in,” answered the servant to 
his inquiry, 11 If the ladies were home ? ” 

In a few moments she came in smiling brightly, and 
saying : 

“ I am really glad to see you again, Mr. Carlton, for 
mamma and Julia said I had quite horrified you with my 
nonsense the last evening you were here. Indeed, you 
must excuse me, hut I cannot possibly don dignity and re- 
serve. Jule can do enough of that for both, and I think it 
is far better to laugh than be sighing.” 

“ Indeed, I have fiever seen anything to disapprove of. 
I could not expect or wish to see the young and happy, 
either affecting, or really possessing the gravity of maturer 
years. My absence has no connection whatever with the 
events of that evening. I have been devoting my spare 
time to my father. This is his last evening with me. I 
came round to ask a favor of you. We are very anxious 
to get up some interest for the mission to — — , and father 
thinks if the young folks of the church would aid us, it 
would be all right. Will you go with us?” answered David. 
A look of deep regret, the first he had ever seen, was ill 
the eyes of Valeria, when she answered : 

u You will have to excuse me, I have an engagement for 
the evening. I am really sorry, I would like to oblige 
you.” Then breaking into a merry laugh, she said : 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


193 


“Jule will go, — ask her. She dotes on missions — both 
foreign and home, and all sorts of Charity meetings. She 
has money too, Eve spent every cent of mine this month 
already, besides all I could borrow. Yes, ask her, I know 
she will, and give too. I should be sure to go to sleep or 
get to plotting some sort of mischief against my nearest 
neighbor. I could do you no good, Mr. Carlton.” 

“ Valeria ! excuse me, Miss Fairleigh — will you be 
serious and listen to me, one moment ? ” 

He urged, but in vain. Not even when his voice sank 
to low soft tones and with pleading eyes, he whispered : 
“ Go for my sake,” would she consent. 

“ At least tell me where you are going ? ” he asked. 

“ 1 am going to . No, I dare not tell. Ma and 

Jule would not approve, and even dear good papa, might 
censure, if he knew it. Here they come! Julia, Mr. 
Carlton is waiting to see you.” 

“Well David, you have failed! Your countenance is 
very expressive. 

“ Even so, sir — Miss Fairleigh not only declined, but I 
greatly fear she is going to the ball against her parents’ 
wishes. If this be so, I must try to conquer this love. 
The girl who sets at naught the will of her kind, loving 
parents — acting secretly against their wishes — would not, I 
am sure, prove a good wife.” 

“ Well spoken, my son. How about Miss Bland? ” 

“ Of course she is going. We are to call for her.” 

“ A good girl — resigning pleasure to duty. A rare good 
girl.” 

“Apparently so, sir; but, indeed, I am impressed with 
the idea there is something hidden about her. She does 
not seem natural,” replied David. 

Father and son had just arrived at Mr. Fairleigh’s when 
the door opened to admit a middle-aged, poorly-clad 
12 


194 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


woman. Showing them into the drawing-room, the ser- 
vant closed the door. Very soon after seating themselves 
they heard the voice of Miss Bland in a very excited tone. 

“My brother ! How dare you ask me of him ? ” 

“ I dare for my child’s sake. She is ill — perhaps dying.” 

“ What is that to him or me ? I told you and her I 
would have nothing more to do with either, since her name 
became so shamefully connected with my brother’s. Will 
you be kind enough to relieve me of your presence ? ” 

“ My daughter is as pure as you. Her child, and your 
brother’s, is suffering from want. Will you pay me, at 
least, for our last work — the dress you have on ?■” 

“ How much ? ” was asked, in a sharp, quick voice. 

“ Five dollars.” 

“ Outrageous ! No, I will not pay that. Here are three 
dollars. Go, and never let me hear of you again.” 

“ Julia Bland, I wish the world knew you as I do. You 
will grind to the earth your sister-woman, and give liber- 
ally where it will be known and said, 1 How charitable — 
how good ! ’ I say how hard-hearted — how deceitful ! ” 
said the woman, in bitter tones. 

“ Go ! ” came forth, in a voice quivering with rage. 

Soon the hall-door told the departure of the unwelcome 
guest. 

Looks of amazement, beyond description, passed be- 
tween the reverend gentlemen. 

At length the younger one said: 

“ She does not know of our arrival. I will go into the 
hall and touch the bell.” 

“ Oh ! excuse me, sir. I thought Miss Bland was in the 
drawing-room. I will tell her now,” said the servant. 

Could this gentle, dignified woman be the same whose 
harsh, hard tones were still lingering in their ears ? 

Impossible ! thought the elder man. Surely he must be 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


195 


in a dreadful, dreadful dream. Not so David : he clearly 
understood it all, and felt truly thankful that the blunder- 
ing servant had enabled him to get this “ peep behind the 
scenes.” 

The meeting was over, and they were just leaving the 
church when : 

“ Please, sir, tell me where I can find the preacher or 
doctor — and I’ve forgot which — maybe both. They fright- 
ened me so, when they hurried me off!” said a boy, run- 
ning up to them. 

“ Here, my lad — what is it ? ” 

(< Mr. Preacher, please come with me. There is a young 
woman very ill — maybe dying. They sent me for some- 
body , and I can’t remember ; but please run, sir ! ” 

“ I will go. Excuse me, Miss Bland ; father will take 
charge of you.” 

And he followed, with hasty steps, the running boy. 

“ Here, sir, — this is the house. Go in, sir, please ! ” 

“ Now, my lad, run over to Dr. Lenord’s office — he is in 
— and ask him to come. So, one or the other of us will be 
the right one.” 

David Carlton entered, treading noiselessly along the 
passage, until he had reached a door slightly open. Glanc- 
ing in to be sure he was right, he beheld lying — apparently, 
almost dying, — a young woman. Beside the bed, kneeling 
with upraised head and clasped hands, was a strangely 
familiar form. Then came forth a sweet voice, pleading to 
the throne of Mercy for the sufferer. He gazed, spell- 
bound, for a moment. Then slowly and softly he retraced 
his steps to the door. Then he almost flew along the 
streets until he reached Mr. Eairleigh’s, just as his father 
and Miss Bland were ascending the steps. Seizing the 
former very unceremoniously, he said : 

“Come, father, with me quickly — you are wanted.” 


196 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


In a few moments more, before the boy bad returned 
with the physician, they stood again at the door of the sick 
room. David whispered : 

“ Look there ! listen ! ” 

“ Be still, Mary dear ! Do not worry. I shall not judge 
you wrongfully. How dare I ? We are all so sinful. 
That you are suffering and in need is all the knowledge I 
want.” 

“ Oh, where is William ? Why does he not come ? 
Why not speak and acknowledge his wife and child ? 
Now that I am dying, he might ! Oh, where is he ? 
Why will not God send him to me ? ” moaned the sick 
girl. 

“ God is love, Mary. He does not willingly afflict or 
chastise us. Try to say, 1 Thy will be done ! 9 

“But, dear, do not be so desponding. I know you are 
very sick ; but I think it more your mind than bodily ill- 
ness. Try to bear up. Pray God to spare you for your 
baby’s sake,” softly said the comforter. 

“ Father, you go in and see if you can help her. I will 
await you outside,” whispered David. 

A slight knock at the door aroused the kneeling girl, 
who approached and said : 

“ Come in, Doctor ! Why, Mr. Carlton ! — I was expect- 
ing the doctor. This poor girl is very sick ; she fainted 
awhile ago. I was very much alarmed and sent a boy for 
a physician. She is somewhat better now. Come in, you 
may soothe her mind, and possibly do her more good than 
the medical man.” 

“ Miss Fairleigh ? Is it possible I find you here ? I 
thought you were at the masquerade.” 

“Heaven bless her, sir,” said a woman arising from a 
seat beside the sufferer, whom Mr. Carlton recognized as 
the person he had seen enter Mr. Fairleigh’s a few hours 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


19T 


before. “ But for her care, we should have suffered beyond 
endurance. She has comforted mind and body. Yes, when 
evil tongues whispered of shame ! her pure heart did not 
fear, or shrink from us. When employers and friends de- 
serted and condemned, she staid by and consoled.” 

“Hush! She has fainted again. Oh! why does not 
the doctor come ? ” said Valeria. 

“ Thank Heaven ! Here he is now.” 

Mr. Carlton approached the physician (an old acquain- 
tance,) and explained to him as well as he could the 
trouble. The kind-hearted doctor raised the poor, thin 
hand, felt the feeble pulse, and turning, answered the anx- 
ious, inquiring looks bent on him : 

“ It is only a swoon ; yet she is very weak. However, I 
think we will bring her round all right in a little while.” 

“ Indeed, she is an honest girl, Doctor, although appear- 
ances are against her now,” said the mother. “Her hus- 
band left her before she was taken ill, to remain a short 
time with his sick uncle. Mr. Bland was fearful of offend- 
ing his aged relative, and so kept his marriage concealed. 
She had a few letters when he first left, but, for near two 
months, not a word have we heard. I fear he is ill. She 
has grown dreadfully depressed since the birth of her babe. 
The suspicion resting on her, is killing her.” 

The suffering girl was showing signs of returning con- 
sciousness. Then a quick step was heard in the entry. 
She started up and cried out : 

“Willie is come! Thank God,” and sank back, almost 
lifeless. 

Wm. Bland, for truly it was so, rushed forward and drop- 
ped on his knees beside the bed, saying : 

“ How is this ? Why have you not answered my let- 
ters ? Doctor save her ! ” 

Advancing, the doctor raised her head gently and gave 
tier a little wine, saying : 


198 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


(( Speak to her, reassure her ; that is all she needs now.” 

“ Listen, Mary love, dear wife, and mother ! ” he whis- 
pered in astonishment, as Valeria held before him the little 
sleeping babe, while a flush of paternal pride passed over 
his fine face. “ There is no more need of silence, I am free 
and proud to claim you, darling. Uncle knows all, and bids 
me bring you to him. He was very ill. I nursed him and 
his life was spared. The fatigue, and more than all the 
worry of mind about you, brought on a severe nervous fe- 
ver. I have been very ill. Julia knew it. Did you not 
hear? In my ravings I told all. Uncle has changed 
much since his recovery. He is no longer ambitious, ex-r 
cept for my happiness, and is now waiting to welcome you.” 

The wonderful medicine had been administered, and 
already the happy effects were apparent. 

With her hand clasped in her husband’s she was slum- 
bering peacefully, while a smile of sweet content lingered 
on the pale face. 

The doctor soon bade adieu, saying : 

“ I see I shall not be needed any longer. She will very 
soon be strong again.” 

“ Miss Fairleigh, I am awaiting your pleasure. Are you 
to return to your home to-night ? ” asked Mr. Carlton. 

“ Oh, yes. Bridget promised to come for me, but I must 
get back before mamma and Julia ; yet I forget there is no 
further need of concealment, I am so very glad ! I will be 
over in the morning. Good-night.” 

“ God bless you Vallie ! you have been a ministering an- 
gel to my loved ones. You can tell Julia I have returned 
and am with ray wife. I fear my sister has acted very 
wickedly in this matter. I have written many times and 
received no answer. Some one, for whom they were not 
intended, got those letters. Perhaps I judge her hastily. 
Good-night,” said William Bland. 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 199 

Vallie, accompanied by Mr. Carlton, was soon on her v way 
home. They had gone but a short distance when they 
were joined by David. 

“ Why, Mr. Carlton ! how strange to meet you, when I 
was just thinking of you, and on the eve of asking your fa- 
ther, to tell you I was not at the ball this evening. I was 
so sorry I could not explain when you asked me. Your fa- 
ther will tell you all, I know. You thought me very wicked 
and wilful,” said Vallie. 

David clasped the little hand held out to greet him, and 
whispered : 

“ With your permission I will come to-morrow, and tell 
you what I did think and do still.” 

Bidding her good night at her father’s door, David lin- 
gered a moment, to catch the low answer to his repeated 
question, “shall I come ? ” 

Fervently thanking God, for the happy termination of 
the evening, he hastened to overtake his father — and said : 

“Well father?” 

“ Well David ! Very Well. Go ahead David, win her, 
if you can ! She is a rare, good girl.” 

“ Which one , sir ? ” 

“ Come, come ! David, I am completely bewildered by 
this evening’s discoveries. Do not bear too hard on me, for 
falling into a common error — mistaking the apparent for 
the real. This night has proved a test far more thorough 
than I imagined it possibly could. You may safely abide 
by the issue and never fear the stormy sea,” answered his 
father. 

A few months more and Vallie Fairleigh’s merry voice 
and sweet smile resounds through, and brightens the minis- 
ter’s home. 

David Carlton stands to-day, among the best loved and 
most popular of the clergy. Attributable most likely to his 


200 


FALSE AND TRUE LOVE. 


“ wife* s influence” (his father says.) I well know she has 
eoothed many an aching heart, cheered the long, weary 
hours of the sick room, won the young from the path of evil, 
and now numberless prayers are ascending and begging 
God’s blessing on the “ minister’s wife.” 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

In the autumn of 1862 my time was constantly employed 
in the various hospitals of Washington. At this period of 
our struggle the Sanitary Commission was in its infancy, 
and all attentions of the kind ladies were joyfully received 
by surgeons and nurses, as well as by our noble, suffering 
boys. Immediately after the wounded from the second 
battle of Bull Run were assigned to the different wards in 
the various hospitals, I was going my rounds in the “ Doug- 
las, ” and after bestowing the wines, jellies, custards, and 
hooks to my old friends, I began to look up the new pa- 
tients. 

u Sister,” I said to the kind Sister of Mercy, whose sweet, 
patient and motherly face was bending over a soldier to 
speak her words of comfort, “ are there any Massachusetts 
boys in the new arrivals ? ” 

“ No, dear ; I think not, in this ward.” Then she bent 
lower to catch the whisper from her patient, and he pointed 
to the card at the head of his little bed. She looked, and 
answered again, “ Oh ! yes, here is one : Paul Ashton, 16th 
Mass., Co. B.” 

I approached the bed, and saw one of the noblest faces I 
had ever beheld, but not that of a Northern boy, I thpughtj 
so proud and dark — no, a true Southern face. 

You from Massachusetts ? ” I exclaimed. 

A wan smile played around his pale lips for a moment. 
He saw my surprise, and answered : 


( 201 ) 


202 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


“ No, from Mississippi ; but in that regiment : ” — point- 
ing again to the little card. 

Here was a mystery, and one I could not solve just 
then. He was too weak to converse, but I made up my 
mind to devote myself to Paul Ashton from that time until 
he was convalescent, or, if God’s will, relieved from his suf- 
ferings. After sitting by his side until the attendant came 
to dress his wounds, I bade him good night, and promised 
to see him in the morning. 

On my way out I met Dr. B. God bless him ! for his 
kindness to our boys. No woman ever was more gentle and 
patient. u Doctor,” I exclaimed, as he was hurrying by, 
" stop and tell me, how is Ashton wounded ? is he very ill ? 
will he die ? ” 

“ Ah, Mrs. H., three questions in one breath. Yes, he is 
very ill. Three wounds in the right side and shoulder, 
which are draining his life away. I fear he must die. Is 
he one of your boys ? Do all you can for him.” 

“ May I ? ” I replied. 

i( Yes, my dear Madam ; and try to keep up his spirits. 
I give you leave. Tell Sister L. He is a noble fellow — I 
am deeply interested in him.” 

The next day found me much earlier than usual at the 
hospital. To my great pleasure I found that Ashton had 
rested well, and was much easier than any one expected he 
would be. He smiled and put out his hand when I ap- 
proached his bed, and motioned me to be seated. After 
talking to him a few moments, I found him looking at me 
very intently, and soon he Said : 

“ Are you from the Bay State ? ” 

I replied “ Oh, no, I am a Southern woman. I am from 
Virginia.” 

" I thought you did not look or speak like a Northern or 
Eastern lady. Then why are you interested in our boys ? 
Are you with us in feeling ? Can you be a Union lady ? ” 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


203 


<c Yes, my boy, I am with you hand and heart. I cannot 
fight, but I can feed, comfort and cheer you. Yes, I am 
a Southern woman and a slaveholder. Now I see you open 
your eyes with wonder ; but believe me, there are many like 
me, true, loyal woman in the South ; but my particular in- 
terest in our regiments is, my father is a native of Boston ; 
but I love all our brave boys just the same.” 

A look of much interest was in his face, which I was so 
glad to see, being so different from the total apathy of the 
day before. 

“ You are the first lady from Virginia that I have met 
who was- not very bitter against us Yankees — it is really 
amusing to be called so, to a Mississippi man. Do you not 
feel a sympathy for the South ? Your interest is with them. 
You against your State and I mine — we certainly are kin- 
dred spirits,” he smilingly said. “We think and feel 
alike. It is not politics but religion my mother always 
taught me. Love God first and best, then my country, and 
I have followed her precepts, at a very great sacrifice, too. 
Sometimes in my dreams I see her looking approvingly and 
blessing me.” 

u Your mother, where is she ? ” 

He pointed up, and said : 

“ Father, mother, both gone, I hope and trust to Heaven. 
I am alone — yes, yes, all alone now.” 

I would not let him talk any more, and finding out from 
the attendant what he most relished, I promised to see him 
the next day. 

I saw him almost every day for a fortnight. He grew 
no worse, but very little, if any, better. On one occasion 
Doctor B. said : 

“ I do not know what to make of Ashton. He ought to 
improve much faster. My dear Madam, set your woman’s 
wits at work j perhaps we may find a cure.” 


204 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


“ I have been thinking I would try to gain his confi- 
dence. I know he has a hidden sorrow. I must for his 
sake probe the wound ; but I fancy it is in the heart.” 

During my next visit I said : 

“ I wish you would tell me something of your life ; how 
you came to enter the army ; and indeed all you will of 
your Southern home.” 

“ His face flushed, and he replied : 

“No, I can not. Why should you want to know ” 

Then he stopped, hesitated, and said : 

“ I beg your pardon. You have been so kind to me, it is 
due I should comply ; but not now ; to-morrow ; I must 
have time to consider and compose my mind. To-morrow, 
please God, if I am living, I will tell you ; and you will see 
that I have a severer wound than good Doctor B. knows of 
— one he cannot use his skilful hand upon.” 

“Well, thank you — I would rather wait until to-morrow. 
I am anxious to get home early this afternoon.” 

“ On reaching his cot the next day, 1 saw Ashton was 
calm, but very pale. I said : 

“ Do not exert yourself this morning. I can wait.” 

*‘No ; sit nearer and I will tell you all.” 

“ I give it to you, dear reader, as he gave it to me : 

“ I told you I was by birth a Mississippkn. My mother 
was from Boston ; the daughter of a wealthy merchant, 
who, failing in his business, soon fell in ill health and died, 
leaving his wife and two daughters almost entirely destitute. 
Mother, the youngest, was always very fragile, and having 
been reared in luxury, was poorly calculated for a life of 
trial and poverty. However, she was urged by a wealthy 
Southern planter to return with him to his home, and take 
the position of governess to his little daughters ; her friends 
all approving of this offer, knowing that a Southern climate 
would improve her health j so she became the inmate of 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


205 


Col. Ashton’s family, and soon was beloved by the father 
and mother, as well as her pupils. I have heard that 
neither the Colonel nor his wife could bear her out of their 
sight. She had been with them nearly a year, when the 
young son and heir, Edgar Ashton, returned from his col- 
lege. He soon followed the rest, and was deeply in love 
with the governess. My mother was very beautiful, pos- 
sessing so much gentleness, with such a merry disposition, 
that I have heard them say that grandfather used to call 
her his Sunshine. The negroes said that she had a charm 
to make all she looked upon love her. But when the son, 
their pride, declared his intention of making May Everett 
his wife, it was met with a decided objection by both 
parents. Impossible ! marry a Northern teacher ! he, the 
son of Col. Ashton — the heir of Ashton manor ! preposter- 
ous ! My mother then prepared to bid adieu to them and 
return to her home, never for a moment listening to the 
repeated petitions of her lover to marrj^ him. She would 
not go into a family where she was not welcome. Her 
high-toned principles won for her additional love and re- 
spect. And when the hour of parting came, the old 
Colonel opened his arms, and drew her to his heart, and 
exclaimed : 

“ *' Wife, we cannot give her up. Welcome your daugh- 
ter/ 

“ My mother, however, went home ; but with the under- 
standing that she would return in a few weeks — as the wife 
of their son. 

“ In two months, she was again with them ; and never a 
happier household ! In the second year of their marriage, 
I was sent to them. My grandparents made almost an idol 
of me, and from grandfather I used to hear of his father’s 
adventures in the Revolution. He inspired me with a de- 
votion to his country which was fostered by my mother. 


206 


IN THE HOSPIT AL. 


When I was sixteen, my father was thrown from his horse 
and brought home to us insensible, and lived with us but a 
few hours. My mother’s health, naturally very delicate, 
sank under this great affliction. She lived only a year 
afterwards, and I was left to comfort my grandparents, 
now quite advanced in years. They would not hear of my 
going away again to school, and engaged a private tutor — a 
young gentleman, a graduate of Yale. I had been under 
Mr. Huntington’s instruction four years. When the coun- 
try began to be convulsed with the whispers of secession, — 
one State after another passing that miserable ordinance, — 
my grandfather said : 

u 1 Paul, my boy, if Mississippi goes out, I shall go too, 
— not only out of the Union, but out of this world of sor- 
row and trouble. I cannot live. I have felt my tie to 
earth loosening very fast since your grandmother left me, 
and I feel I cannot live any longer if my State shall be 
classed with traitors.’ 

“I have failed to tell you grandmother died in my 
eighteenth year. Mr. Huntington, feeling sure of what 
was coming, left us for his home in Medford, never for one 
moment expressing to us any views on the subject now en- 
grossing all minds ; and, when parting with him, I whis- 
pered, ‘ If it comes, I am for my country ! Look for me 
North within a few weeks.* It did come, as you know ; 
and when one of my aunts — now both married — ran laugh- 
ingly in, with a blue cockade pinned on her shoulders, ex- 
claiming : 

(i 1 Father, we are out ! ’ 

“ She stopped in horror, and looked upon the calm, cold 
face. But the spirit had fled. We know not if he had 
heard or not, but I trust he had passed to perfect peace 
before his heart had been so sorely tried. 

“ Next to our plantation was the estate of one of the 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


207 


oldest, wealthiest, and proudest families of the State. The 
daughter and I had grown up together, and I loved her 
more than all and everything else on earth. Her brother 
and I were very intimate, — both having no brother, we 
were everything to each other. He had mounted the Pal- 
metto badge, and was all for war. My mind was no longer 
wavering, since my grandfather’s death. I was going up 
North, and, after a short visit to my mother’s sister — the 
wife of a very influential and patriotic man in Boston — I 
would offer myself to my Government. Now you will 
know my sorrow. 

a I had expected to meet opposition, entreaties, re- 
proaches, and everything of that sort. So, preparing my- 
self as well as I could, I rode over to bid my idol good-bye. 

a I- met Harry first, and telling him I was going North, 
to leave fortune, friends, and everything for my country. 

“ ‘ What, Paul, desert your State in her hour of need ? 
Never ! You, a Southern man ? Your interests, your 
honor, are with us.’ 

“ Much passed between us ; when he, laughingly, said: 

“ 1 Go in and see sister ; she will talk you out of this 
whim.’ 

“ I cannot tell you how she first coaxed, then argued, 
then chided me with not loving her, and then came — oh, 
such contempt ! You have no idea of the trial to me. 
She talked as only a Southern girl talks — so proud, so un- 
yielding. And when I said : 

“ ‘ Let us part at least friends. Say God bless me, for 
the sake of the past ! ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ she said, ‘ no friend. With a traitor to his 
State, or a coward, — no, I will never say God bless you ! 
and never do you take my name on your lips from this day. 

I would die of shame to have it known that I was ever 
loved by an Arnold ! Go ! leave me ; and if you raise 


208 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


your arm against the South, I hope you may not live to 
feel the shame which will follow you/ 

“ I met Harry again on the lawn, and he exclaimed : 

“ 1 Good-bye, Paul. Give us your hand. You are hon- 
est, and will sacrifice everything, I see ; but you are all 
wrong. God bless you ! 1 

And he threw his arms round me, and so I left them. 

“ 1 cannot tell you how I suffered. It seems as if I have 
lived a century since then. Did I not know the unbounded 
pride of a Southern girl, I should doubt her ever loving me. 
I have never mentioned her name since that day, and 
never shall. Now, my friend, you see I have little to live 
for. Soon after my arriving in Boston, the 16th was form- 
ing. I enlisted, to the horror of my aunt, as a private. 
My friend would have procured me a commission, but I 
preferred to go in the ranks and work my way up if I lived, 
and here is my commission, received after you left yester- 
day. I brought my colonel off the field, and was wounded 
when I went to get him. — It is a first lieutenant’s ; but I 
fear I shall never wear my straps.” 

“Yes, you will. You are getting better slowly, hut 
surely; and, my friend, you must cheer up, — believe ‘He 
doeth all things well ’ — have faith-r-live for your country. 
I feel that all will be well with you yet. ‘ Hope on, hope 
ever / 99 

I went and saw Dr. B. ; told him it was as I had 
thought. 

“ A wound that we cannot cure, Doctor.” 

I gave him an idea of the trouble and left. 

I had become so much interested in Ashton that I had 
almost ceased my visits to the other hospitals, except an oc- 
casional one to the “ Armory Square,” where I had a few 
friends. I thought I would go over and make a visit there 
this afternoon. 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


209 


I went into ward C, and, after seeing how well my boys 
were getting on, I inquired after the lady nurse, Mrs. A., 
a widow lady, to whom I had become much attached for 
her devotion to the soldiers. 

“ She has gone home to recruit her health ; has been 
away ten days ; she left the day after you were here last,” 
replied one of the boys. “ But we have, just think, in her 
place a lady from the South — Miss .or Mrs., indeed I do not 
know which, for I have never heard her spoken of other 
than Emma Mason — But here she comes.” 

I had time to look at her for several moments before she 
came to the patient I was sitting by. She might be seven- 
teen or twenty-seven, I could not tell. She was dressed in 
the deepest black — her hair drawn tightly back from her 
face, and almost entirely covered by a black net. Her 
complexion was a clear olive, but so very pale. Every fea- 
ture was very beautiful, but her greatest attraction was her 
large, dark blue eyes, shaded by long black lashes. She 
came up smiling sweetly on the wounded boy, and said : 

“You are looking quite bright, Willie; you have a 
friend, I see, with you.” 

I was then introduced* to Emma Mason. When she 
smiled she looked very young. I thought her as beautiful 
a girl as I had ever seen ; but in a few seconds the smile 
passed off, and there came a look of sorrow — a yearning, 
eager gaze — which made her look very much older. I went 
round with her to visit the different patients, telling her of 
my great interest in the soldiers, and trying to win her 
confidence. I was very anxious to know something of her 
history, but I could gain nothing ; and, giving it up in 
despair, I bade her good evening, and was leaving the ward 
when she called me and said : 

“ Will you be kind enough to notice among the soldiers 

13 


210 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


you may meet from Boston, and if you find this name let 
me know immediately.” 

I took the card and read, Paul Ashton, 16th Mass. Vol. 

I started, and was about telling her where he was, when I 
was stopped by seeing the deathly pallor of her face. 

“ She said, scarcely above a whisper : 

“ Is he living ? ” 

I said I was only about to tell you I felt sure I could 
hear of him, as I knew many of that regiment. I felt 
that I must not tell her then. I must find out more of her 
first. 

She looked disappointed and said : 

“.I heard that regiment was in the last battle. Have 
you seen any since that time ? I am deeply interested in 
that soldier ; he was my only brother’s most intimate 
friend.” 

I told her I should go the next day, probably, to the 
“Douglas,” and if I had any tidings I would let her know. 
And so I left her, anxious to be alone, to think over and 
plan about this new development in Ashton’s history. 
Who was she ? Could she be his lost love ? Impossible ! 
This nurse in a Union hospital ! Ho, never. She must be 
down in her Southern home. What should I do ? Go tell 
Ashton ? Ho, that would not do yet. So I worried about 
it, and at last I decided I would sleep on it, and my mind 
would be clearer for action in the morning. 

I could not divert my mind from the idea that it must ' 
be the girl whose name I had never heard. 

Hext morning my mind was made up. I went over to 
see Ashton ; found him in poorer spirits than ever. I sat 
down and tried to cheer him up. He said : 

“ I feel more miserable this morning than ever in my life 
before. I have a furlough for thirty days, but I do not care 
to take it. I am as well here as anywhere.” 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


211 


I said “ I have often found that the darkest hours are 
many times followed by the brightest. Cheer up. I feel 
as if you would have some comfort before long, and see. 
Why, here you have a bouquet with so many ‘ heart eases 9 
in it. Heaven grant it may be a token of coming ease and 
happiness. Who gave these to you ? It is rarely we see 
them at this season.” 

“ Sister L. gave them to me ; they came from the green- 
house.” 

I told him I should see him again that afternoon, and 
taking my leave, went over to see the nurse at the armory. 
She came quickly forward to see me and said : 

“ Have you any news ” 

u I have heard of him ; he was in the battle and very se- 
verely wounded, but living when my friend last heard of 
him.” 

" When was that ? Where is he ? ” she exclaimed, hur- 
riedly. “ You know more, I can see ; please tell me.” 

I answered her : 

“ I will tell you ajl, but I must beg of you a little confi- 
dence in return. I saw him n^self, and helped to nurse 
him — was very much interested in him ; he was terribly 
ill and is now very, very weak — his recovery doubtful. He 
has told me much of his past life. Now will you not tell 
me what he is to you ? for I see you are deeply moved.” 

“Did he tell you anything of the girl who drove him off 
without a kind word — heaping upon him reproaches and 
wounding his noble heart to the core ? If he did, it was I. 
Oh ! how I have suffered since ! Even when I accused him 
of cowardice and treachery, in my heart I was proud of 
him. Oh, tell me where he is, that I may go to him. I 
have been looking for him every moment since the battle. 
Take me, please ? ” 

“ He is at the ‘ Douglas/ but very sick ; I saw him not 


212 


IN THE H 0SPITA1. 


two hours ago. I fear any sudden shock, even of joy. 
You are never absent from his mind ; he has never men- 
tioned your name, hut he has told me much. Now tell me, 
will you not, how it is you are here ? and then we must 
devise a plan to take you to him without too great a 
shock.” 

She said : 

“ These black robes are for my brother. He bade me do 
what I could for the suffering and wounded on both sides, 
and find Paul. I will give you a letter I received written 
by him a few days previous to his death. After you have 
read it you will then understand better why I am here.” 

And leaving the ward for a few moments she returned 
and handed me the letter. The writing plainly told that 

the writer was weny weak. I give it to you, my dear 

reader, every word; I could not do justice by relating in 
my own style : 

“ Sister — I am wounded, and must die. I have felt it 
for several days. The doctor and the kind boys try to 
cheer me up, but I’ve been growing weaker daily. The 
suffering in my breast is terrible. I had a Minnie ball pass 
through my left lung. I have been very much frightened 
about dying, and wanted to live ; but last night I had a 
dream which has produced a great change. Now I feel 
sure I shall die, and am content. I am with the Union 
boys; they are very kind. The one next me fanned me 

and rubbed my side until I fell asleep last night, and slept 

better than I have since I’ve been Wounded. Now, darling 
sister, here is my dream : — I thought I had been fighting, 
and having been wounded, was carried off the field and was 
laid under a large tree ; after being there a little while I 
felt some one clasp my hand; looking up, I found Paul. 
He also had been wounded. He handed me his canteen, 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


213 


and while drinking I seemed to get quite easy. There 
seemed to be a great mist all over us ; I could see nothing 
for a little while. Again I heard my name called, and 
looking up, found the mist had cleared away, and our great 
grandfather (whom I knew well, from the old portrait, 
which we used to be so proud of, father telling us he was 
one of the signers of the ‘ Declaration/) was standing be- 
fore me, but he did not look smiling like the face of the 
picture ; hut, oh ! so sad and stern. In his hand he held a 
beautiful wreath of ivy, which he, stooping, placed on the 
brow of Paul, saying, ‘ Live, boy — your country wants 
you ; 9 and stretching forth his hand, he drew me to a stand 
near him on which stood our old family Bible, ink and pen. 
He opened to the births, and putting his finger on my 
name, he raised the pen and marked a heavy black line 
over the H, and was proceeding, when his hand was caught 
by our old nurse, Mammy Chloe, who has been dead years, 
you know, who pointed over towards the west of us, and 
there stood a large shining cross with these words over it, 
‘ Unless ye forgive men their trespasses, how can your 
Heavenly Bather forgive you ? ’ And coming up to me, 
put forth her hand and beckoned me to follow her. Then 
the old gentleman spoke and said, ‘Your blood will blot 
out your disgrace ; ’ and turning the leaf, he pointed to the 
‘Deaths/ and I read, ‘On the 28th of September, 1862, 
Harry Clay Mason, aged 21 ; 9 and then I woke up. This 
is the 20th ; I think I shall live until that day. Now I 
bid you go carry mother to somewhere North, to Paul’s 
friends, they will be kind to her and try to comfort her, 
and go you and devote yourself to the suffering soldiers, 
and find Paul, if possible ; he will live, I know ; tell him 
how I loved him, yes, and honored him, although I thought 
him wrong. Tell him good-bye. And to mother, try to 
soften this blow as much as possible. Tell her I am happy 


214 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


now. I think God will pardon me for my sins, for His 
Son’s sake. There is a boy from my regiment expecting to 
be parolled, and he has promised to deliver this to you. 
Good-bye. God bless you, darling. 

“ Lovingly, Harry. 

“ Fairfax, Va.” 

I was much affected. After a few moments I said, 
“ How long did he live ? ” 

“ He lived, seemingly growing much better, until the 
afternoon of- the 28th. He was then taken with hemor- 
rhage and so passed away.” And pushing her hair back 
from her temples, she said — 

“These came the night I got that letter.” And I saw 
the numberless white hairs gleaming amid her raven locks. 
I said, 

“ Come, we will go to him. I think you had better write 
a little note to him ; you know best what to say, but do not 
tell him you are here just yet, but something to set his 
heart at peace ; and I wall tell him it was given me by a 
Southerner I found in the hospital.” 

“Yes,” she said, “you are very thoughtful, that is just 
the thing.” 

And she went into the ante-room, and soon came out, 
and giving me the note, said, 

“ You know all — read it.” 

And I read : — “ Paul, forgive and love me again. I shall 
try to come to you soon.” 

So we proceeded to the “Douglas,” and I went in, found 
Dr. B., told him and asked if we might venture in. He 
thought better to break it gently at first, and promising to 
stay near in case of being needed, laughingly said to Miss 
Mason, 

“ How if I was a Doctor of Divinity, I should be wishing 
to be sent for.” 


IN THE H OSPITAL. 


215 


Leaving her in his charge, I went in. 

“ Back so soon ? ” Ashton said. “ How bright and 
cheerful you look ! ” 

I sat down and said, “Yes, I have some pleasant news : I 
have a letter for you ; I met with a Southerner who knew a 
friend of yours, who gave me this for you. It may be from 
your aunt, and you may hear from your lady love, possibly.” 

He caught the letter, tore off the envelope, and read. I 
was frightened — he never spoke a word or moved. Then 
“Thank God !” burst forth in heart-felt tones. 

I saw he was all right. I said, 

“You must now commence to think of her coming and 
being with you, for it is some time since that person left 
the South, and you may look for her any time. I was told 
that the family were intimate with Mr. Davis, and they 
were to have a i pass ’ North to find ‘ the son.’ I then 
told him I had wanted to prepare him, for she was really in 
Washington, and I had met her — she had given me the 
note for him. He seemed to divine all, and said, 

“ Bring her to me. I am strong and well now.” 

I sent the attendant to Dr. B.’s room, and in a few mo- 
ments she was beside him. 

“ Forgiven ! ” she murmured ; and, bending, pressed her 
lips to his pale forehead, and taking his hand, she sat on 
the cot beside him. There was little said, but 

“ Eyes looked love to eyes that spake again.” 

So they remained until the sun went down and it was 
getting quite dark, when Dr. B. came in and said, 

“ Ah, Ashton, you have a more skillful physician than I. 
She has done more for you in five minutes than I have for 
as many weeks. I guess you will take that furlough and 
commission now, Lieutenant Ashton.” 

He took Dr. B.’s hand, and said, 


216 IN THE HOSPITAL. 

“ Under God, Doctor, by your skillful hand and great 
kindness, with the attentions of the good friends here, I 
have been kept alive for this day.” 

Emma Mason bade him good night, saying she must go 
over to her boys again, and get her discharge from the sur- 
geon in charge. 

In three days, Ashton bade adieu to his friends in the 
“ Douglas,” and with Miss Mason, Dr. B., and myself, he 
got into the carriage waiting, directing the driver to stop 
at the residence of the Bev. Dr. Smith. There they were 
united, and received our heart-felt congratulations, and pro- 
ceeded to the cars, which soon bore them to their friends 
North. 

A few days ago a servant came to my room bringing a 
card. 

I read : u Paul Ashton and wife.” 

I almost flew down to them. They were on their way 
South to settle up their property and provide for the old 
servants who remained there. Paul had returned to the 
army and remained until the close of the war, having reached 
the rank of Colonel. He is looking very well. He has 
been offered a commission in the regular service, but his 
wife says his country had him when he was needed, but she 
must have him now. They are taking with them the re- 
mains of poor Harry, to place beside his father in their 
Southern home. His mother is now quite resigned, and 
says she is only waiting God’s will to meet her friends 
above. 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 

* 

BY PRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


But still our place is kept and it will not wait; 

Beady for us to fill it soon or late, 

No star is ever lost we once have seen, 

We always mat be, what we might have been. 

“ You have never loved me, Constance, or you could not 
thus calmly bid me go, without one word of hope for the 
future. Only say, that I may some day call you mine ; 
and I will win a name that you will not blush to bear.” 

“Would to Heaven I could, Ernest; hut I can see no 
hope of* my father’s relenting. You heard how determined 
he was never to consent to my union with any one save 
Gerald. You say I have never loved you ! believing this, it 
will not he so hard for you to leave me. It is useless pro- 
longing this interview ! Every moment brings an increase 
of agony, making it harder to part. Bid me good-bye, say 
God bless me, and go quickly ; if you have any mercy for 
me.” 

“Listen just for a moment more! Oh my darling, for- 
give my hasty word ; but, Constance, if your love was as 
devoted and single as mine, you would not thus resign one 
■who loves you only of all the world ; no one shares my 
heart with you. I know you love me, hut not as I would 
he loved, or you would leave father and mother and cling to 
me. What right has your father, or any other fhther, to 
blast his child’s happiness ? Heed him not, love, hut come 
with me. I will never let you feel a single regret. I will 

( 217 ) 


218 


EARNEST AND TRUE.. 


love you more than all their love combined. Nay, do not 
turn aside — you must hear me. Think what you are do- 
ing! wrecking my happiness, casting me forth without 
hope, to drag out a miserable, useless existence. I may be 
cursed with long life. Constance, darling, come with me ! 
With your parents it will only be a short grief— disap- 
pointed ambition — and, at the most, only the thwarting of 
their proud hopes. They will soon get over it ; but even if 
they should not, in all human probability they have not the 
length of days to suffer that we have. Bid me hope !” 

“ Ernest, Heaven only knows what a severe trial this is 
to me. Yet your words only strengthen me in my duty. 
It is true, as you say, my parents are old. Can I grieve 
and wring their careworn hearts ? No, no ! What recom- 
pense can a child make her parents for all their unselfish 
love, care, and constant watching over, and providing for, 
from the first feeble baby days, to the time when they could , 
if willing, return all this, by simple duty: obedience to 
their will. Think, Ernest, how in my days of illness, my 
mother watched over and soothed me. The long sleepless 
nights spent over my cradle — praying God to spare her 
child — for what ? to prove an ungrateful one ! Oh no ! I 
could look for no blessing on our union if I should be deaf 
to the pleading of my parents, and heedless of God’s own 
command. 

“ Perhaps some time hence they may think differently. 
Then, if you have not sought and won another, we may be 
happy. One thing you may rest assured of, I shall never 
wed Gerald Mo re ton, or any other. I obeyed my father in 
resigning you, but cannot perjure myself by taking the 
marriage vows, even at their command. Do not leave me 
in anger, Ernest. Let your last look he of kindness and 
forgiveness for the sorrow I cause you. Now, a long look 
into your eyes, to engrave them for ever on my heart. 
Good-bye — God bless you, Ernest.” 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 


219 


She held out her arms, and was clasped in a long, last 
embrace. Breaking away, she was soon lost to view among 
the deep shadows of the garden. 

“ And this is the end ! This is woman’s love ! Mere 
filial duty, I should say. Well, well, a final adieu to all 
thought of love. In fflture I devote myself to ambition, 
wedded only to my profession, in hope that in this I shall 
not meet with another such reward.” 

Constance Lyle was the only child of wealthy parents. 
Ever since her infancy her father had cherished the hope of 
uniting her with his ward, Gerald Moreton, the son of a 
very dear friend. Gerald was left an orphan before he had 
reached his tenth year. When Mr. Moreton, on his death- 
bed, placed his son under the care of his old friend, he in- 
timated his desire that some time in the future, the little 
Constance (scarcely then four years old) should bear the 
name of Moreton. To this Mr. Lyle readily agreed. The 
little Gerald was truly a noble boy, and he was much at- 
tached to him, years before having lost a son of the same 
age ; this child of his dearest friend had, in some degree, 
served to fill the aching void. Again, Gerald’s prospects 
were very brilliant ; but, to do Mr. Lyle justice, more than 
all this was the desire to please his friend, to make some 
amends for the past. In years gone by these two men had 
been rivals for the love of Constance’s mother. 

Moreton was a high-minded, noble fellow, and when he 
became sure that young Lyle was the favored one, not a 
thought of ill-feeling entered his heart against his friend ; 
but going to him, with his usual candor and generosity, he 
said : 

“ I shall go away for a while. It will be rather too much 
for me to bear witnessing your happiness, just yet. I shall 
get over it in time, though. Heaven bless you, dear friend, 
and grant you happiness and prosperity. Ho one will pray 


220 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 


for your welfare more sincerely than myself. Bid her good- 
bye for me. After a while I’ll be back, to stand god-father 
to some of your little ones, perhaps.” 

He remained away three years; and then returned home, 
bringing with him a fair, fragile little creature, who re- 
mained with him scarce two years ; leaving the little Gerald 
to comfort and console the bereaved man, and be a loving 
reminder of the gentle little dove, who had loved him so 
dearly, and then winged hes flight above, to watch over 
and pray for the coming of her loved ones. 

So it was that Mr. Lyle would look with no favor, or even 
patience on any suitor. Even when Constance herself 
pleaded for Ernest Ellwood, telling him she could never love 
Gerald other than as a brother ; and if he would not give 
her to the one she loved, that she would remain with them, 
but would never wed where she could not love. 

Still he remained firm in his determination to give her to 
bis friend’s son or no one. 

Years passed by — but she continued as firm and deter- 
mined in her resolve as her father in his. 

Gerald, like his father, was a noble fellow. He loved 
Constance, but when he found his love was a source of 
grief to her, he began to set himself to work to devise 
means of rendering her path in life rather more pleasant. 
She did not murmur at her self-sacrifice ; this she consid- 
ered her duty ; but the constant and continual entreaties 
for the marriage wore upon her, and made her life almost 
miserable. 

Gerald told Mr. Lvle he must beg to resign all preten- 
sions to Constance ; that upon examining his heart, he found 
out that it was as a sister he loved her, and was not will- 
ing to render her unhappy by making her his wife. If his 
father were living he would not wish it. That he thought 
a promise, made to the dead, had much better be broken, 
than kept by making the living miserable. 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 


221 


So, to carry out his views, he left home for a summer 
trip. After being absent three months, he wrote to Con- 
stance that he had decided to remain awhile longer ; and at 
the end of another month, came a letter to Mr. Lyle, say- 
ing that he was about to be married — desiring certain busi 
ness arrangements to be made — and ending by the remark, 
that he knew that this marriage would not meet with the 
cordial approval of his kind guardian, and for this he was 
truly sorry ; but was more than compensated for this by 
the knowledge that he had the best wishes of his dear sis- 
ter, Constance, and begged Mr. Lyle to try and render her 
happy, in return for her unhappiness during the last ten 
years. 

This was a dreadful blow to Mr. Lyle, and he declared 
that if Ernest Ellwood had not crossed their path, that his 
dearest hopes would not have been thwarted. Not for a 
moment did he relent. 

Constance had heard nothing from Ernest since she 
parted from him, except once, about five years after. She 
picked up a Western paper, and saw his name mentioned 

as one of the rising men of State — an extract from a 

political speech made by him — and finally the prediction of 
a brilliant career for this young man, whose talents and elo- 
quence were placing him before the people, who, even now, 
in so young a man, recognized a master-spirit ; and in all 
probability very shortly he would speak for his adopted 
State in the halls. of the national Capitol. 

This slip ‘‘was cut out and treasured by her — and once 
when her father was grumbling and predicting bad luck to 
his evil genius, as he called him, she brought forth and 
displayed, with a grateful heart, this notice to prove she 
had not loved unworthy. 

Her father listened with interest to the extract from the 
speech and the comments relative to the speaker. He had 


222 EARNEST AND TRUE. 

been considerable of a politician, and as Ernest was of the 
same party as himself, he felt really glad of his brilliant 
prospects. 

“ In all probability he is married long ago, and has al- 
most, if not quite, forgotten you, Constance. At any rate, 
you see your sending him off did no hurt. Men are sensible ; 
they don’t die of love. Something more formidable, in the 
way of*Uisease, must attack to carry them off, or affect their 
minds, either. Yes, yes, child, be sure lie has transferred his 
affections long ago,” remarked the father. 

“ I cannot tell, father. Perhaps it is so ; you can judge 
of man’s constancy better than I. If I judged him, it would 
be by my own heart, then I should be sure he is not mar- 
ried. I think that when alone, and freed from the care and 
toil of business, or, at rest from his studies, that his mind 
wanders back to the girl of his love. No ! no ! he has not 
forgotten me.” 

One after another of the joyous new years rushed into the 
world, passing on to maturity, growing older, and finally 
passing out ; leaving the gentle, submissive girl, as they had 
found her, devoting herself to her father. 

Now disease had settled on Mr. Lyle. For years he had 
been an invalid, nervous, fretful and impatient. No one 
but Constance could suit him. Not even his wife. Her 
gentle hand, only, could soothe his suffering. Her soft, lov- 
ing tones, alone would quiet his paroxysm of nervousness. 

Time passed on, and Death entered the home of Con- 
stance, not to disturb the long suffering father; but taking 
the apparently healthy mother. Swiftly, quietly, and with- 
out suffering, she passed from her slumbers to the home of 
her Maker. 

This was a terrible trial for the poor girl. She almost 
sank under it ; but in a little while she rose above her own 
sorrows. Bowing with submission to the will of God, she 




EARNEST AND TRUE. 


223 


* 


now felt why it was her young hopes had been blasted. 
Before all was dark. Now she saw plainly. She alone was 
left to cheer and solace the stricken father ! No longer a sin- 
gle regret lingered in her heart. All was well. A holy calm 
broke over her, and she became almost happy, blessed with 
an approving conscience. 

Suffering at last softened the stern nature of Mr. Lyle, 
and opened his eyes to the value of his child. He knew her 
devotion, her patient, untiring attendance on him, and he 
felt what a blessed boon she had been to him, and how illy 
he had merited so much loving kindness ! 

On one occasion he said : 

“My daughter, I do not deserve such a blessing as you are 
to me. I have been very harsh and relentless, and caused 
you much sorrow ; would that 1 could call back the past, and 
act differently. Heaven only knows how grieved I am for 
my mistaken views and actions.” 

Going up, and putting her arms around him, she replied j 

“Ho not worry about the past, father dear, nor about 
your daughter. Believe me I am happy with you ; and have 
no regrets. I would not be absent from you during your 
suffering, even to be with him.” 

“ Where is Ernest ? Ho you love him still ? ” he asked. 

“ I only know (through the papers) that he has been elect- 
ed to Congress. About my still loving him ! depends en- 
tirely on whether I have the right to do so: he may have 
given that to another,” she replied, and called to her beau- 
tiful lips a sweet smile, to try to convince him, more than 
her words would, that she was content, whate’er her lot 
should be. 

It is a few weeks after the meeting of Congress. All 
Washington is on the qui vive about the passage of the 

Bill, and the appeal to be made in its favor by the 

new member from 


224 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 


Constance Lyle stands before her mirror. More than 
usual care has she bestowed on her toilet. 

We will play eavesdropper, dear reader, just for once, and 
peep over her shoulder, to view the changes time has made. 
No longer the fresh, brilliant beauty of her youthful days. 
Constant confinement in the sick room, care, and anxiety 
have faded the roses that used to bloom on her cheeks; but 
to us she is more charming, this pale beauty, with her gentle 
dignity, and sweet patient look, than the bright, merry girl 
of years ago. 

There is something about her which makes us think we 
would like ever to be near her, side by side, to pass on life’s 
pathway, feeling sure her beauty would never wane, but wax 
purer and brighter as she neared her journey’s end. Listen ! 
She says : 

“ How strange my birthday should be the one for his 
speech ! This day I shall see him for the first time for 
fifteen years. Yes, I am thirty-three to-day, and this is 
the anniversary of our parting ! ” 

Leaving her room she is soon h}' her father’s side. 

" I’ll have to go early, father, dear. It will be very 
crowded, and Gerald is waiting. His wife is going to stay 
with you during my absence.” 

“ How well you look, my daughter ! Why, really, you 
are getting young again ! ” 

“This is my birthday, father. I am a maiden of no 
particular age to the public, but. I whisper in your ear pri- 
vately,” she joyously said ; and, suiting the action to the 
word, bent down, whispered, kissed him, and was gone. 

“ How time flies ! But she is still very beautiful. 
Heaven grant my prayers may be answered. She deserves 
to be happy ; and when I am gone she will be very lonely, 
and then feel keenly my harsh treatment,” he murmured. 

Wearily passed the hours until he heard her light steji 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 


225 


on the stairs. She came in. He thought there seemed a 
shadow on her face, but she came forward, and said, pleas- 
antly : 

“ Well, father, you are likely to keep your daughter. 
I heard Ernest. I had not expected too much ; he was 
grandly eloquent. He has altered in his looks ; he seems 
much older, and is quite gray ; mental work and hard 
study, he says.” 

“ Then you saw him, and spoke to him ! What do you 
mean by saying I shall keep you ? Is he mar ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, before he had finished his question. 
“ He introduced me to his daughter, a little miss of about 
twelve ; so you were right when you said that men were 
too sensible to suffer for or from love. He must have mar- 
ried in two years after he left us. Gerald left little Con- 
stance and me in the library, and went and brought him to 
see us. We were with him only a very short time, >vhen 
he was sent for. He excused himself, and bade us Good- 
daj’ - . Now, father, I will remove my wrappings, and order 
dinner.” 

Day after day passed on, and Constance had schooled 
herself to think of Ernest only as a happy husband and 
father. She did not blame him for taking a companion. 
He was away from all kindred and friends, and she had 
given him no hope to induce him to wait through all these 
years for her. 

One day, just a week after their meeting at Congress, 
she was sitting reading to her father, when a servant en- 
tered, and handed a card. She read, Ernest Ell wood ! 

Paler for a few moments, and tightly pressed were the 
sweet lips. She did not rise from her seat, until she had 
communed with her heart. Now, she thought, I must call 
up all my fortitude and self-control, and prove to Ernest, to 
14 


226 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 


my father, and, more than all, to myself, that my heart is 
not troubled ! 

“ Father,” she said, “ Ernest is below. He is waiting, 
probably, to inquire after you. I told him you had long 
been an invalid. Will you see him ? ” 

“ I would rather not, darling, unless you wish it. Go 
down awhile, and if he must come up, let me know first.” 

Slowly she descended the steps, passed through the long 
hall, and entered the drawing-room, advancing with quiet 
dignity to welcome the distinguished representative. 

He listened a moment to her words, so calm and cold ; 
then, clasping her in his arms, he drew her down beside 
him, and said : 

“ Oh, my darling ! thank heaven, I find you still Con- 
stance Lyle ! ” 

She tried to draw herself away from his side, but his 
arm% held her tightly^, and his hand clasped hers. His 
eyes were gazing so earnestly and lovingly in hers, as in 
by-gone days. She tried to speak, but he said : 

“ Nay, my beautiful love, you must not move or speak 
until you have heard me through, and then I shall await 
your verdict. I know you think it so strange that I have 
not been to you before. I have been the victim of a mis- 
erable mistake. The day I entered this city I walked past 
here to catch a glimpse of you perhaps. As I neared the 
door, 1 beheld seated on the steps that pretty little girl 
that I afterwards saw with you. I stopped, spoke to her, 
and asked her name. Constance, she told me, and her 
father’s Gerald. Oh, my love, the long years of suspense 
were ended to me then ! I cannot tell you how $ark the 
world seemed to me then. I struggled on, however, with 
my sorrows. Then I met you. Your being with Gerald 
and having the little one with you only too truly proved 
that my conjecture was right. I saw you, as I believed, the 


227 


• 

EARNEST AND TRUE. 

happy wife of Gerald, and knew no difference until this 
morning. When I met him then, he stopped and urged 
me to come and see him. I asked after his wife, and re- 
marked that time had changed her but very little, when, to 
my amazement, he said he did not know I had ever met 
Mrs. Moreton. Then came the explanation. I parted 
with the noble fellow only a few moments ago, and here I 
am now. Tell me, love, that all my waiting — never wan- 
dering from my love for you for an hour has not been in 
vain. Speak, love ! ” 

“ Ernest Ellwood, what mean you by speaking to me 
thus? Allow me to rise. Your mind is certainly very 
much affected. Nothing but insanity can excuse this lan- 
guage to me. I will order the carriage to convey you home 
to your wife and daughter.” 

“ My wife ! — oh, yes, now I know. Gerald told me. 
We have all been very busy blundering. My darling, I 
have no wife or daughter. Louise is only mine by adop- 
tion. Her father was my dearest friend. This little one 
was placed in my arms, an orphan, when only three years 
old — and she knew no parent but myself. Can I go to 
your father, love ? ” 

She no longer tried to release herself from his arms. 
Lower and lower drooped the beautiful head until it was 
pillowed on his breast. He felt her heart throbbing 
against his own, and almost bursting with its fulness of 
joy. He was answered — rewarded for all the years of 
waiting. 

At length she raised her head. In her eyes he saw all 
the love of years beaming there. 

“ At last, my Ernest,” she said. “ 1 must go to father ' 
first and prepare him to see you.” 

Springing lightly up the stairs, she entered the room 
and stood beside her father’s arm-chair. 


228 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 


He saw her beaming look, and said : 

“ What is it, Constance ? What has brought this great 
joy to you ? You look so happy.” 

“ Father, we have all been under a great mistake. Er- 
nest has never been married. That was his adopted 
daughter. He is waiting to see you; may I bring him 
up? ” 

“ Yes, yes. Thank God ! my prayers are answered.” 

In a few moments she stands before him, with her hand 
clasped in Ernest’s. 

“Here I am again, Mr. Lyle, as in years gone by; 
pleading for your blessing on our love. May I have her 
now, after all these years of waiting ? ” 

“Ernest Moreton, I am profoundly thankful to Heaven 
for sparing me to see this day. Welcome back to your 
home and old friends, and welcome to the hand of my 
daughter. Take her ; she has been a loving, patient, duti- 
ful child. She has brightened and cheered my path for a 
long, weary time, and now I resign this blessing to you, 
and beg your forgiveness, for these long years, lost to both, 
which might have been passed happily together.” 

“ Not resign, but only share with me, this blessing ; she 
shall never leave you, sir,” replied Ernest. 

“Father, do not speak of years lost; they have not 
been. Ernest would not have gone away, and devoted 
himself to study, if we had been united then ; just think 
then what his adopted State would have lost ? and I have 
been cheering you — think what you would have lost with- 
out your little Constance ! Nay, there is nothing lost ; all 
is gain, and simply by keeping God’s command, 1 Honor 
thy father and thy mother.’ ” 

“ Let me come in to rejoice with you all, and make my 
speech,” exclaimed the noble Gerald, grasping the hand of 
each. “ I say that they are worthy of each other. He by 


EARNEST AND TRUE. 


229 


his earnest, unwavering love for his lady fair, and earnest, 
untiring endeavors to serve his State — who has now won 
the respect and confidence of his countrymen — he alone is 
worthy of the woman ever constant to her early love, yet 
never faltering in her chosen path of filial duty.” 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


"Who made the heart, ’tia He alone 
Decidedly can try us ; 

He knows each chord — its various tone; 

Each spring — its various bias ; 

Then at the balance, let’s be mute — 

We never can adjust it; 

What’s done, we partly may compute — 

We know not what’s resisted. — R obebt Bubns. 


“ How is it, my old friend, that you are so very lenient to 
these young thieves ? Your sentence was very unexpected. 
Everyone thought you woujd, at least , send them to the 
State’s Prison for three or four years. The young rascals 
were amazed themselves. The House of Correction, for six 
months, has not much terror for them. Do you know that it 
has become a common saying, among the members of the 
bar, that our venerated and respected judge has a strong 
sympathy — in a word, a 1 fellow feeling’ — for all young 
thieves ! I think you will have to commit a few of those 
gentlemen for contempt.” 

“ I do not wonder, at all, Mr. Archer, at any, indeed, every 
one, thinking and saying as much,” said Mrs. Morley, the 
wife of the judge, just entering the room in time to hear the 
concluding part of Mr. Archer’s remarks. “ Only a few 
months ago the judge could not possibly help sentencing a 
boy to the State’s Prison ; but, before the time for entry 
came, he succeeded in getting his pardon; and, more than 

( 230 ) 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


231 


this, he has brought him here, into his own home-circle, with 
the idea of reforming him.” 

“ My dear wife, have you any cause, so far, to think I 
shall fail ? Has not the boy proved grateful and worthy ? 99 
asked the judge, in a mild, though very sad, voice. 

“ Yes, yes ; but how you can have any patience with such 
characters, I cannot imagine,” answered his wife. 

“ Sit still, Archer, if you have no engagement ; I am go- 
ing to tell my wife a little story, which will probably ex- 
plain my charity towards those unfortunate youths that you 
have spoken of ; and, indeed, all such. You, as my oldest 
and most valued friend, shall share the hearing, if you wish.” 

“ Many thanks for the privilege, with my deep appreci- 
ation for your kindness in thinking of me thus,” returned 
Mr. Archer, warmly, at the same time resuming his seat. 

u The story I have to tell you came under my immediate 
observation. I was quite well acquainted with the princi- 
pal character. 

“ Very many years ago, and nor far distant from this city, 
lived an orphan boy, scarce fifteen years of age — bereaved, 
at one cruel blow, by a prevailing epidemic, of both parents, 
and left to the care of an uncle, (his father’s brother) a 
hard, cruel man. 

u A few hundred dollars, quite sufficient, however, to sup- 
port and continue the boy’s studies, for a few years, was 
left in the hands of the uncle. But of this there was no 
proof — no will or last testament was left. 

“ Death came so swiftly there was little time for aught 
save an appealing look from son to brother, and the pleading 
voice murmured : 

“ ‘ Be a father to my boy. Oh ! deal justly, kindly to- 
wards him.’ 

“ In a very few days the sensitive mind of the poor boy 
too truly perceived that he was not a welcome inmate. Be- 


232 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


fore a month had passed he was withdrawn from school ; 
his love of study was discouraged ; in fact, made a source 
of ridicule ; and his time so completely taken up with hard 
work on the farm, there was no chance for aught else. 

“ On one occasion George (we will call him) ventured a 
remonstrance with his uncle — alluding to the money in his 
possession to be used for George’s education and support. 
Judge of his amazement and indignation when the bad man 
denied having one dollar in trust for him, and ended by call- 
ing him a pauper, and saying he would have to work for his 
bread. 

“ The future, there, was very plain to George : a life of 
ignorance — nothing higher than a mere farm drudge. His 
mind was determined against that . Privation, suffering, 
death, even, were preferable. The next day found him a 
fugitive from injustice and dishonesty — a lonely traveller on 
the path of life. Seeking Fortune, to find, and be treated 
by that whimsical goddess with good or ill. To be smiled 
or frowned upon, to be mounted upon the triumphing waves, 
rising higher and higher, until he had reached the pinnacle 
of Fame, or drifted about, sinking lower and lower in the 
dark waters, at last reaching the pool of Dishonesty, Despair, 
Death ! 

“ Ah ! who could tell which fate would be his ? 

“Oh ! how I can sympathize with all such! Looking 
back on my own pathway to manhood. Remembering the 
dangers, temptations and numberless snares that youths 
have to encounter. In fact, to pass through a fiery fur- 
nace ! And how very few are they, that come forth, un- 
scarred, and purified ! 

“Remembering this, I exclaim, “How was I saved? 
And then my heart almost bursting with gratitude, forces 
the words to my lips, — by God’s mercy alone ! 

“ Taking with him a few favorite books — a change of 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


233 


linen — he bade adieu to the home so laden with bitter 
memories. 

“A day’s weary travel brought him to the city of 

L . Here, for many days, until the Autumn came on, 

he managed to subsist— ^doing little chores, carrying a 
carpet-bag or bundle — earning enough to sustain life 
merely, and sleeping in the depot or market-house. 

“ At length the cold days and colder nights came on: 
work was very hard to find, and our poor boy’s fortitude 
was severely tried. 

“ The day of his trial, his direst temptation came ! For 
twenty-four hours he had not tasted food. A cold, bleak, 
night was fast approaching. One after another of his 
books had gone to get a piece of bread. Now nothing was 
left but starvation or — the boy dare hardly breathe it to 
himself — or dishonesty ! 

“ He must have food somehow. Loitering about the 
depot, watching a chance to earn a few pennies, he saw a 
gentleman alight from a carriage, take out his pocket-book, 
pay the driver, and return it, as he supposed, to his pocket. 

“ It was almost dark, yet the eager eye of the hungry 
boy saw what had escaped the driver’s. 

“ There, in that gutter, lay the surety against suffering 
for that and many coming nights. 

tc He was about to rush forward and secure the prize — 
the lost pocket-book ; but caution whispered, ‘ Be sharp ! 
you may be seen.’ And then, with the cunning and sly- 
ness of an old thief — thus suddenly taught by keen suffer- 
ing — he sauntered along, crossing the gutter, stumbled and 
fell ; themput out his hand, covered and secured his treas- 
ure, slowly arose, and feigning a slight lameness, he re- 
traced his steps towards the depot, entered the waiting- 
room, which he felt sure would be unoccupied at that hour. 
Getting behind the warm stove and close to the dim lamp, 


234 WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 

he opened the pocket-book — gold ! notes ! tens, twenties — 
over a hundred dollars met his gaze ! When had he seen 
so much ? His — all his l Had he not found it ? Possi- 
bly he might have overtaken the owner and restored it, but 
what was the use of throwing away good luck ! But 
already Conscience was at work. Turning over the notes 
he found a little silken bag. Opening it, he drew forth a 
miniature painting of a beautiful little girl, and on the 
back was written : 

“ ‘ Our darling! three years old to-day.’ 

“ It was a lovely, angelic face. The boy was fascinated, 
spell-bound by it. Long he gazed. He grew very uneasy. 
His bosom heaved convulsively. There were signs of vio- 
lent emotion, and then burst forth the words : 

“ ‘ I have not stolen it. Who says so ? I found it ! 9 

“ Again he looks almost wildly at the picture ; then 
whispered hoarsely : 

“ 1 She says, “ Thou shalt not steal ! 19 Can this bo 
stealing ? Ho — no, it is not. It is luck. I am growing 
nervous from long fasting. Oh, heavens, how hungry I 
am ! Bread, bread ! I must have bread or die ! ’ 

“ Taking out a few small coins, he closed the pocket- 
book, putting the little miniature in his bosom ; then 
walked as swiftly as his failing strength would allow ; 
reached, and was about to enter, an eating-house. At the 
door, he hesitated ; and, drawing forth the little picture, 
looked again at the baby-face. How, to his eye, she has 
grown older ; and the face is so sad, with such an appealing 
look, which speaks to his inmost heart. 

“ The blue eyes were no longer the laughing ones of 
childhood^ but, oh ! — yes, it was really so — his mother’s 
lovely sad face was before him ! The same sweet quivering 
lips, which seemed whispering so earnestly : 

“ ‘ Thou shalt not steal ! ’ 99 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


235 


“ Thrusting the picture back to its hiding-place, he sank 
exhausted from violent emotion and extreme weakness 
down on the stone steps. 

“ Oh, the terrible struggle that was going on in that 
young breast ! 

“ The tearing pangs of hunger, the sharp stinging 
thrusts of conscience were warring for the victory. Oh, 
those who have never known the pangs of hunger can but 
poorly imagine that fearful struggle. At last; thank God ! 
Conscience triumphed. Honesty was victor. 

“ Bursting into tears, he murmured : 

“ ( God forgive, and have mercy ! Mother — little angel- 
girl smile on me ! ” 

(! He returned the coin to the book, and clasping it 
tightly, replaced it in his pocket. 

“ ‘ I will not touch one cent ; and in the morning, if I 
live so long, I will find some means to restore it to the 
owner — all but the little picture — that angel-child has 
saved me, and I must keep her to watch over me in the 
future./ 

“ Slowly he arose, and was proceeding along the street, 
thinking he could at least return and sleep in the depot, 
when a loud noise attracted his attention. 

“ A horse came dashing furiously along the street, draw- 
ing after him a buggy in which was crouching a lady almost 
lifeless with terror. Thoughts as swift as lightning flashed 
through his mind : he might save her — what though he was 
trampled to death. Then he surely would be relieved from 
suffering ! 

“ Summoning up all his little strength — then wonderfully 
increased by excitement and manly courage, he rushed for- 
ward, faced the frightened little animal, seized the reins, and 
was dragged some distance, still holding firmly on — sus- 
taining no injury save a few bruises — until he succeeded in 


236 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


checking the wild flight. He saw his advantage; then, 
with a kind voice, he spoke to the horse, patting and rub- 
bing his head and neck, until he became quite gentle. 
George knew the poor fellow was not vicious, but frightened 
at something he had seen or heard. 

“ In a few moments he was joined by a crowd — among 
whom came a gentleman limping and wearing a look of 
great anxiety. 

“ George knew his thoughts, and said : 

“ ‘ The lady is not at all hurt, sir, only frightened/ 

“ Several had seen the boy’s action, and the owner of the 
horse soon understood all about it. Many were his words 
of grateful acknowledgment, and warmly shaking the boy’s 
hand, he pushed into it a half-eagle. 

“ Looking at this a moment, again tempted by hunger, 
he hesitated— then exclaimed : 

“ ‘iVo, thank you, sir, I cannot take it. I am amply re- 
warded by having succeeded in helping the lady.’ 

“ 1 Oh, do let us do something to prove our thanks. You 
look so weary, and indeed, almost sick. Tell us how can we 
serve you,’ said the lady, who had not spoken until then. 

“These kind words brought tears to the boy’s eyes; he 
tried t< peak but his voice failed. 

a i dome, my boy,’ said the gentleman, 1 it is growing very 
cold. We live only a short way from here. I shall lead my 
horse, and you must follow on. Supper is waiting for us ; 
and after we have been refreshed by a cup of hot coffee and 
something substantial, I shall insist on being allowed to 
prove mj 11 thankfulness, in some way or other.’ 

“ This kindness, George had neither the strength nor the 
will, to refuse. 

“ Following on, he soon reached with them, the house of 
Doctor Perry. Such a supper the famished boy had not 
seen since his parents’ death, and he did full justice to it. 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


237 


“The doctor’s delicate kindness, and cordial manner so 
won on the boy, that during the evening he told him his 
whole storjr, of his hard struggles and dreadful temptation, 
and ended by producing the pocket-book, and asking the 
doctor’s advice as to the manner of restoring it. 

“ His kind friend suggested that there might be some 
clue to be found inside as to whom it belonged. 

“ Opening it, George carefully examined every part, and 
sure enough, found a card with the probable name and ad- 
dress of the owner. 

“ ‘ Now, my boy, it is too late to-night, but in the morn- 
ing you can go find the place, inquire for the lady, and then 
ask “ if her husband left last night in the train for — ” If 
he did, then you may know you have found the right per- 
son. Now about yourself, your future. What are your 
ideas ? 9 

“ 1 Oh ! sir, if I could only earn enough to support me 
and get into the City Academy. I should be the happiest 
boy alive. But it is so hard to get a permit. I know I am 
quite far enough advanced to be able to keep up with the 
boys. I could live on bread alone to be able to acquire 
knowledge,’ said the boy, with great earnestness. 

" 1 1 am thankful, my young friend, I can now find a way 
to serve you. I am one of the directors of that Institution. 
You shall be entered, and obtain all the advantages it of- 
fers. 

“ 1 1 see you are a proud boy and must feel that you are 
earning your living. Come here to me every morning be- 
fore, and after school has closed in the afternoons. I wish 
you to take care of my office, and keep my things in perfect 
order for me. What say you to this, and then getting your 
meals with us ? 9 

“Oh ! what joy was in that hitherto sorrowful heart. 

“ Words could not express it; but clasping the doctor’s 
bands, he pressed them to his heart, and pointed upwards. 


238 WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 

“ His friend knew how grateful he was, and how very 
kappjr he had made him. 

“ Oh ! had not God heard his prayer and speedily an- 
swered it. Mercy, how freely, how bountifully it was be- 
stowed on him. 

“ At last the words burst from his lips : * Oh,’ God I thank 
Thee/ 

“ Early the following morn the pocket-book was restored; 
everything save the miniature. This he kept; yet ail the 
while feeling keenly that he was guilty of a theft. Yet in 
this he did not feel that God was offended. And often as 
he gazed at his little ‘ guardian angel,’ as he called her, he 
would say, smilingly : 

“ She does not look reproachfully or seem to say, ‘ Thou 
shalt not steal me.’ 

“ His mind was determined on the purpose to work every 
spare moment, night and day, denying himself in every way, 
until he had secured money sufficient to get the picture cop- 
ied, and then return the original. 

“ Months passed on, prosperity smiled on him. His best 
friend, the Doctor, had full confidence in him. His teachers 
encouraged and approved. All was well. 

“ His miserable lodgings were before long resigned for a 
comfortable room in the happy home of Doctor Perry, who 
insisted on this arrangement. Saying : 

“ ‘ George, your services fully repay me — my little son 
loves you dearly, and has wonderfully improved in his stud- 
ies, since he has been under your charge. We want you 
with us as much as possible.’ 

“Now, only one thing troubled him. The stolen picture. 

“ At length he accomplished what once seemed an almost 
impossible thing. The picture was copied and paid for ; 
and George started to return the original, the one that had 
rested in his bosom so long. How he loved it. 


WHY HE WAS ME8C1F0I, 


239 


“It was a great sacrifice for liim to give up that, and re- 
tain the copy. However, he was somewhat compensated by 
the result of his errand. 

“ ’Twas the fifth birthday of the little girl, and well he 
knew it. Ascending the steps of her father’s house, he 
rang the bell which was soon answered by a servant, and 
behind him came a bevy of little girls, the foremost being 
the original of his picture, his little ‘ guardian angel/ 

“‘More presents for me ? 5 she asked, as he handed the 
precious parcel into her tiny hands, extended for it. 

“ ‘ No, little one, for your father ! Will you tell me your 
name ? 5 he asked. 

“ ‘ Oh, yes ! My name is 5 

“ ‘ What was it ? 5 eagerly asked Mrs. Morely. 

“ ‘ Why are you so anxious ? I’ll punish you a little for 
interrupting me, by not telling you , 5 answered the judge, 
playfully. 

“ ‘ Well, well, no matter, only go on , 5 answered his wife, 
showing plainly how deeply she was interested in his 
story. 

“ The little one held out her hand, saying : 

“ ‘ I am five years old to-day. Shake hands with me, Mr. 
— I do not know your name. Every one shakes hands and 
kisses me to-day . 5 

“ The youth clasped the dear little hand — (held forth with 
the sweet innocence of childhood, and combined with a 
dignity well worthy of a maid of twenty,) and pressed on 
it a pure kiss, at the same time breathing to himself the 
vow that with God’s blessing and help, to win such a posi- 
tion that should enable him to seek, and know this child in 
her home. To try and make himself worthy of her. To 
win her love, and in years to come to have her as his ‘guar- 
dian angel 5 through life. 

“Often he would get a glimpse of her at the window or 
the door, this giving him encouragement to work on. 


240 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


“ Another year he was taken as assistant in the primary 
department of the academy, this giving him a small in- 
come. 

“ In two more years, he had graduated with the highest 
honors. 

“His mind had long been determined in favor of the law. 
His most ardent wish to get in the office and read with the 
father of ‘ his little love/ then a very distinguished lawyer. 

“ This desire he made known to Doctor Perry, who read- 
ily encouraged it, saying : 

“ I have no doubt, George, that you can succeed, backed 
by such letters as we can give you. This gentleman is very 
kind and courteous, and I think has no one with him at 
present. If I am not very much mistaken, after you have 
seen and talked with him a short time, it will be all right. 

“ And so it proved. In a few days more George was 
studying under the same roof with, seeing and speaking 
daily to the child of all his dearest, highest aspirations. 

“ Very soon the little maid of eight years became very 
fond of him. 

“ George rose rapidly in the respect and esteem of his in- 
structor, and in a few months a deep and sincere attachment 
existed between them. Subsequently our young friend en- 
tered the Bar, and was looked upon as a man of fine prom- 
ise ; his career upward was steady, and finally, after eight 
or ten years’ practice, he was among the best of his day. 

“ All these years of toil and study were for laurels to lay 
at the feet of the one who had so unconsciously saved him 
and encouraged him “ onward.” Nothing now prevented 
the fruition of all his hopes. A little while longer, and the 
living, breathing, speaking guardian angel was all his own 
— blessing his heart and house, filling his very soul with the 
purest love, the most profound gratitude to God, by whose 
infinite mercy he was thus almost miraculously saved. 


WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL. 


241 


And to prove his gratitude and thankfulness, he has endeav- 
ored constantly to win the erring from sin, to encourage and 
sustain the penitent, to try and soften the hardened heart, 
and finally as much as possible to ameliorate the suffering 
and punishment of the guilty and condemned. Truly 
knowing how very many are tempted as much and more 
than the hero of my story, without the interposition of such 
a special Providence.” 

The Judge had finished. Mrs. Morely arose, and pass- 
ing her arm around her husband, pressed her lips to his, 
earnestly and with deep emotion, saying : 

“ I long since recognized the noble suffering boy of your 
story. My husband, forgive my having ever questioned 
your actions or motives. In the future I will try to prove 
my worthiness of your love, by aiding you in all your works 
of mercy.” 

“ My old friend, and of all the most respected and hon- 
ored, if it were possible your story would increase my ven- 
eration,” said Mr. Archer, grasping and pressing the 
Judge’s hand. 

“ I would to Heaven there were more like you. If so, the 
temptations and snares which surround the path of youth 
would be less terrible and frequent — in a word, our whole 
community a little nearer, as God would have us be.” 


15 


TWO MEMORABLE THANKSGIVING DAYS. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. — Tennyson. 


“Draw near me, William, I have so much I want to say, 
and now I feel too truly, how rapidly I am drifting away. 
When I close my eyes, I see so many happy, familiar faces, 
just a little way above, in the clouds. They are beckoning 
me away. Tell me, what day is this ? ” 

“ Thanksgiving, dear. But pray, do not talk so. You 
are not going to leave me yet, Mary. You will be, you are 
better,” said her husband, bending sorrowfully over her. 

“ Yes, I will be well, soon. I shall not see to-morrow’s 
sun. Promise me, my husband, to try and make our boy 
feel, as little as possible, his loss. Be to him, what I have 
been. He is a strange, shy child ; and reminds me much of 
my own childhood. You scarcely know him, you have been 
so completely absorbed in your business all the time. Be 
with him, have him more with you. There is no need now 
of your being such a slave to business. You are prospering, 
you will be rich. Oh ! do not let your heart become so en- 
cased in gold, as to render it inaccessible to all higher, bet- 
ter feelings. In years to come, another will occupy my 
place, but oh ! William, do not let those new ties come be- 
tween you and your first-born. Give me your hand, and 
with it the pledge to make his welfare yOur first thought. 

“ Thank you, dear j you have lifted a great weight from 

( 242 ) 


TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 243 

my heart. The only doubt is cleared away. Here, put our 
wedding ring on your finger ! how tight it fits ! It will be 
a constant reminder of your pledge. Now bring Willie to 
me.” 

She gradually faded away during the afternoon, murmur- 
ing constantly words of love and hope, the last intelligible 
being, “Love each other for my sake.” 

As the Thanksgiving sun went down, the spirit of the 
gentle, long suffering Mary Archer joined the waiting ones 
above. 

William Archer truly loved his young wife, and sincerely 
mourned her loss. Much of his time was spent with his 
son, in trying to comfort and divert the attention of the 
sorrowing boy from his great loss. 

Willie grew to love very dearly his father, hitherto almost 
a stranger to him. 

Mar3 7 ’s words were soon verified. Riches grew rapidly 
around him, and in less than two years he had filled her va- 
cant place by another. 

With what an acute ear, jealous eye, and aching heart, 
he listened for every word of endearment, watched every 
action of love, that his father bestowed on his new wife. 
Willie was not a boy to win the heart of a stranger. Re- 
tiring, silent, and sad, but possessing a brave, grateful 
heart, he had to be known, to be loved. The new mother 
did not care to take the trouble to win the love of her hus- 
band’s child. 

Years rolled on. Bright, cheerful, happy boys, and 
beautiful, loving girls grew round the father’s heart, claim- 
ing and winning his love, until poor Willie was almost for- 
gotten, or only remembered when in sight, and then always 
compared so unfavorablj’’ with the merry ones around him. 

On one occasion, some temporary ailment, caused the 
father’s hand to become very much swollen, until the little 


244 TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 

wedding ring became very tight and pained his finger 
much. His wife suggested its being filed off. While de- 
bating on the necessity of so doing, there came memories of 
the past. The long forgotten pledge, the reminder of which 
was making him feel it so keenly then. How had he ful- 
filled that promise. 

He would not have the ring removed. The swelling 
gradually passed away. And William Archer determined 
to make amends for his past neglect by future care and at- 
tention to his motherless boy. 

But these good intentions were put to a speedy flight by 
an unfortunate accident which occurred that afternoon. 

Constant difficulties and childish quarrels arose between 
the little ones, Willie always being the erring one, both 
with the mother and nurses. If a child fell and was hurt, 
“ Willie did it.” In a word the poor boy was the " scape- 
goat.” 

The children were plajdng in the large grounds surround- 
ing their future elegant home. Willie was just twelve 
years old then. The nurse was attending the younger ones. 
A little way from the house was a large pond with a rus- 
tic bridge. Mr. Archer had frequently warned the nurse 
of the danger in allowing the children to play about there. 
Little Eddie, a merry, wilful boy, of six years, disregarding 
all Willie’s entreaties to come away, would amuse himself 
by “ riding horseback,” as he called it, on the railing of the 
frail bridge, and tossing up his arms with a shout of defi- 
ance and laughter, he lost his balance and fell into the 
water, quite deep enough to drown a much larger boy. 

A scream from the little ones brought the nurse to a 
knowledge of the truth. 

u Eddie’s in the water. Eddie’s drowned.” 

In a moment Willie’s jacket was off and he plunged in, 
and before the terrified nurse could collect her thoughts, 


TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 


245 


brought out and placed the insensible boy on the grass, 
before her. 

Catching up the child, she rushed to the house and plac- 
ing him in his mothers arms, declared, to screen her own 
negligence, that, 

“ Willie had pushed his brother in the pond.” 

Willie, following on with the other children, entered the 
house, his young heart proudly glowing with the knowledge 
of having done a good, brave action, and saying to him- 
self: 

“Now this will surely please papa, and make Eddie’s 
mother love me a little.” 

Poor boy ! He was met by eyes and harsh upbraiding 
words — which for a moment quite bewildered him. 

“ You have killed your brother! You cruel, unnatural 
child,” cried the mother. 

“ Out of my sight, boy,” said his father in low, threaten- 
ing tones. 

“ Oh, father, what do you mean ? Let me tell you how 
it was.” 

“ Begone, sir,” and the enraged man gave poor Willie a 
blow, which sent him reeling into the hall. 

Staggering up to his room, and throwing himself on the 
bed, he wailed forth, in heart-rending tones : 

“ Oh, mother, mother ! I wish I was with you ! Others 
can die, why not I ! Ho one loves me ! Oh, I wish I 
| were dead ! ” 

Tired and exhausted by the exertions in the water, he 
soon fell asleep and remained so until the sun was just ris- 
ing next morning. 

All his sorrow, all the injustice of the night before came 
rushing back to his mind. 

Hastily dressing himself, and then taking from his desk 
paper and pen, he wrote : 


246 TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 


“ You have told me to get out of your sight, father. I 
shall. You will never see me again. You need not search 
for me. I am going to try and find my mother. When 
Eddie is better, you will hear the truth, and feel your injus- 
tice to * Willie.” 

Folding this, and leaving it on his table, he stole down 
and made his way into town, not quite determined what to 
do. His first thought was to seek the river, and in its 
quiet waters end his sorrows. Oh, why would not Death 
come to him ? 

How quiet the city was ! Usually so many w r ere stirring 
about at that hour. No market wagon-s or bread carts 
about. Oh, now he remembered it was Thanksgiving day. 

On he walked, and then came in sight the church where 
his mother used to go, and then memories of all her holy 
teachings. Should he find her, if he attempted self- 
destruction ? 

What could he do ? He # could not live on ! Surely God 
w T ould forgive him ! 

Then he thought he would go once more into that 
church, and then — Heaven only knows what next. Wait- 
ing in the park until church time, he retraced his steps, 
and reached the door just as the beautiful hymn, “ Come 
ye disconsolate,” rose into the air. 

Going in while the words : 

“ Here bring your wounded hearts ” 

filled his ear, he crept up into the gallery and seated him- 
self near the choir. 

He grew somewhat calm, and his mind was, for the time, 
diverted from his sorrows by the sight of a little girl seated 
beside one of the singers — her mother, he thought. 

The happy, beaming face of the little one interested him 
very much. 


TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 


247 


The services over, he followed close behind her, endeavor- 
ing to get another look at her, wondering if she was ever 
sad ! And standing at the church door as she was about 
to enter a carriage waiting, in which a lady and gentleman 
were already seated, he thought : 

“ Oh, what kind, loving parents she must have to make 
her look so joyous ! ” His face wore a very sad expression. 
The little girl turned, caught the sorrowful look bent on 
her, then stepped suddenly back, went up to our Willie, 
and said, with the winning grace and perfect simplicity of 
a child of six : 

“ Here, little boy, you look so sad, I am very sorry for 
you. Take my flowers.” 

What angel-spirit, prompted by the will of its Divine 
Master, was it that whispered to the little child to go com- 
fort the sorrowing boy, and with her kind sympathy and 
sweet offering to draw him back from the dreadful precipice 
on which he stood, and lift him from darkness and despair? 
His mother’s, perchance. A bright light shone in the boy’s 
eye. His face was losing its despairing expression. The 
flowers were speaking to his heart, whispering of Trust, 
Faith, Hope ! Yes, he must live on, brave all sorrows, 
trample down difficulties, and with God’s blessing try to 
live to be a good and useful man. 

“ Why, Minnie ! What do you mean ? Why did you 
give those beautiful flowers to that strange boy ? I never 
saw such a child as you are ! ” 

“ Mamma, I gave them to him because he looked so sad, 
just as if he had not a happy home, or loving papa and 
mamma like I have. I felt so sorry for him, and I wanted 
to tell him so. I’m sure he hasn’t got any mother, or he 
would not look so.” 

“Hever mind, Laura, my dear. Do- not worry about 
Minnie. She is all right. Let her act from the dictates 


248 TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 

of her kind, innocent heart,” returned the little one’s 
father. 

“ Oh, yes ! Let her alone, and in years to come she will, 
from the dictates of her kind heart, be giving herself away 
to some motherless, fameless and moneyless } T oung man, I 
fear ! ” said the worldly and far-seeing mother.” 

“ But not senseless man, I’ll warrant you,” was the 
laughing reply. 

*#*#**### 

“ Why, William, my dear boy, why can you not be satis- 
fied to remain here with me ? Why do you wish to go 
away ? ‘ Idle life ! 1 ‘ Make a living and do some good ! 9 

Humph, sir ! you need not be idle. Bead to me ; ride with 
me. As for your living , sir, I made that for you before you 
were born ; and now I intend you shall enjoy it. Now, my 
boy, my son in all my heart’s dearest affections, stay with 
me. Wait until the old man is gone, then you will have 
time enough to be useful to others.” 

“ Mr. Lincoln — uncle, father ! — yes, more than father — 
your wish must be mine. Did you not, fifteen years ago, 
take in a poor, wretched, friendless, homeless boy — bless 
him with your care and protection, educate, fulfil all his 
brightest hopes by giving him a profession, which will not 
only make him independent, but enable him to help and 
comfort others. Let me prove my gratitude in any way.” 

“ Come, come, do not talk of gratitude. Oh my boy, if 
you only knew what deep joy it has afforded me, having 
you here. I will tell you, now, William, why it was I so 
readily opened my heart and home to the little wanderer I 
found that Thanksgiving afternoon so long ago. When I 
first looked into your eyes, there was a strange familiar ex- 
pression about them, that aroused my interest. Upon ques- 
tioning you I found that the son of the only woman I had 


TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 


249 


ever loved, was before me ! My heart yearned to keep yon, 
otherwise I should have relieved you from present want, and 
then informed your father of your whereabouts. Yes, my 
boy, the love I bore your mother, was never transferred to 
another woman. Your father and myself were her suitors, 
at the same time. He proved the fortunate one. Having 
you with me all these years has been a great solace ; and 
now say no more about gratitude. Just love me, and stay 
with me.” 

And Uncle Lincoln added humorously : 

“ Perhaps I may be doing some good by preventing some 
harm. I’ll keep you from practicing and experimenting on 
some poor creature. Oh, you young doctors are always very 
anxious to make a beginning. ’Pon my word, I have quite 
forgotten to open my little Minnie’s letter. Coming here 
to see her uncle, and will be with us to-morrow. I’m glad 
— very glad. Well, it is rather strange that the two I love 
best in the world should not know each ojther. It has hap- 
pened that you have been off at college or attending lec- 
tures each time she has been here. Guard well your heart, 
boy. Every one loves her, and she no one better than her 
parents and old uncle. Much to her mother’s regret, she 
has refused the finest offers in town. She does not care a 
mote for the title of ‘old maid’ with which her mother often 
threatens her. She is twenty-one and never been in love, 
she says.” 

u I think I am quite safe, sir. I am not at all suscepti- 
ble, and it is not likely that a young lady of her position in 
society and of such beauty, will cast a thought on me.” 

The next day, the old gentleman had the pleasure of in- 
troducing those he loved so well ; and, to his infinite de- 
light, saw his darling Minnie had certainly made a desired 
impression on his young protege. 

“ Here he is, Minnie ! the boy who stole half my heart 


250 TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 

away from you. I do not know how you will settle it with 
him, unless you take his in pay.” 

Often during the evening Uncle Lincoln noticed Will’s 
gaze lingering on his niece, and there was a softer light than 
usual in his fine eyes ; but, to his great regret, his boy did 
not appear to his usual advantage. He was very silent, and 
his mind seemed absent — far away. 

And so it truly was. In the lovely girl before him Wil- 
liam Archer beheld the joyous child who, on that dark day, 
spoke so kindly and saved him from — he dreaded to think 
what ! 

Uncle Lincoln rubbed his hand and chuckled merrily to 
himself. Everything was working to his entire satisfaction. 
These two impenetrable hearts were growing wonderfully 
congenial, he thought. 

A few days before Minnie’s visit was concluded, William 
brought out and placed in her hands a bunch of withered 
flowers ; told his story of how, long years ago, her sweet 
sympathy had cheered his desolate heart and made him feel 
that there was still love in the world — then so dark to him ; 
.that her kind action had awakened in his almost paralyzed 
mind better thoughts, and let him know the only way to 
gain peace and happiness, and, finally, meet his mother, was 
in living on — putting his trust and having faith in God’s 
goodness and mercy ! 

And then he told his love and gained hers ; and, with her 
dear hand clasped in his, stood waiting Uncle Lincoln’s 
blessing ! 

“ Minnie might do very much better,” said the aspiring- 
mamma ; “ but it was Uncle Lincoln’s wish.” 

So the next Thanksgiving was to be the wedding-day.” 

******* 

In a luxuriously-furnished apartment, surrounded by 


TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 


251 


everything that contributes to make life pleasant, sat an 
old man. 

Every now and then he would raise his bowed head from 
the clasped hands, gaze anxiously around the room, and then, 
with a deep sigh, relapse again into his attitude of grief 
and despair. At last, he speaks : 

“ Thanksgiving night again, and, for the first time in fif- 
teen years, she has failed to hover round me, and I have 
not heard the sighing voice enquire : ‘ Where is my boy ? 
How did you keep your promised word?’ Oh! perhaps 
the mother has found her child. He may he with her now. 
Oh ! I would give every thing, my poor, miserable life, to 
recall that terrible day’s injustice. My brave, noble boy ! 
and how were you repaid ? Oh ! I have suffered terribly 
for all my neglect and wrong of my motherless boy ! All 
gone from me, all the healthy, beautiful children ; all taken 
away! We were not worthy of those precious gifts. God 
took them to himself. Now, what comfort do all these 
riches bring me ? Nothing ! nothing ! and my poor, child- 
less wife ! How bitterly she has repented her wrong!” 

u Oh ! Willie ! Willie, my boy ! Where are you 
now ? ” 

“ Here, father, here ! kneeling, and waiting for your love 
and blessing.” 

“ Am I dreaming ? Oh ! cruel dreams ! I shall awake, 
as often before, and find how false you are ! ” 

« No, it’s no dream, father ! Give me your hand. Now, 
you feel your erring boy is back beside you, praying your 
forgiveness for all these years of silence — causing you so 
much sorrow ! ” 

The old man clasped to his son’s bosom, long he held him 
thus, while a sob of joy burst from the father’s thankful 
heart. 

“ Father, speak to my wife, you have another child now ; 


252 


TWO THANKSGIVING DAYS. 


she, it was, who brought me back to you this blessed day. 
This, the anniversary of my mother’s death ! also, of the 
day of my greatest peril, is now the happiest of my life — • 
my wedding-day, and restoration to my father’s heart ! 

“ Where is my step-mother ? I would see and try to com- 
fort her. Oh ! let this day be one of perfect reconciliation. 
Let us make it a thanksgiving from the inmost heart.” 

And now, may we all, who have aught of ill dwelling in 
our hearts, go and be of kindly feeling one towards the 
other again. Let not the coming Thanksgiving’s sun go 
down on our wrath. Let it not be merely a thanksgiving in 
words — a day of feasting — but a heart’s feasting on peace 
and good will. 


THE TREACHEROUS WIND. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


Let it work ; 

For ’tis the sport to hare the engineer 
Hoist with his own petard. — Shakespeaiie. 

<( Look here, Nan, quick, and tell me who this pretty girl 
is that your devoted Eugene has just bowed to so gallantly. 
She is coming here, and he is returning with her!” said 
May Merrill, who stood at the window, watching the de- 
parture of her cousin’s fa vorite, of the many admirers who 
clustered round her. The young lady thus addressed ap- 
proached just in time to see Eugene Osborn open the gate, 
and hold it until the young girl passed through. Then fol- 
lowing after, walked up the garden beside her, and, ascend- 
ing the portico, rang the bell. Then raising his hat, he 
bowed, and retraced his steps. A sneering expression 
passed over Nannie Carroll’s handsome face, as she an- 
swered : 

(t Really, I think Mr. Osborn takes unnecessary trouble 
to practice his gallantry. But I suppose he wants to keep 
up his reputation of being the most polite man in L — . 
You might well imagine that girl almost a princess, if you 
would judge by his bearing towards her. And she is only 
my seamstress. Her mother makes Eugene’s shirts, and 
does his mending. Foolish fellow ! that girl is just weak 
and perhaps vain enough, to be flattered. He should be 
more careful. Her name you asked ? Clara Courtney.” 

u Quite an aristocratic name, anyhow,” said Mav. 

( 253 ) 


254 


THE TREACHEROUS WIND. 


“ Yes ; I believe originally they were in quite good cir- 
cumstances, but reduced somehow or other. Hush ! here 
she is coming. I will probe her a little, and find out how 
she takes Eugene’s politeness.” 

Clara Courtney entered, presented her work for inspec- 
tion, received her pay, and instruction relative to some new 
articles, and was about retiring, when Miss Carroll asked, 

“ Is your mother very busy ? My cousin needs some 
work done. I did not know but perhaps she was much en- 
gaged with Mr. Osborn’s wardrobe, as he is about leaving 
town. By the by, I did not know you were so intimate 
with him. I noticed he returned with you to our door.” 

A crimson flush swept over the face of the sewing girl. 
Eor a moment she hesitated; then in a calm, dignified man- 
ner she replied : 

“ My mother is not busy, Miss Carroll. With regard to 
my intimacy (as you are pleased to term it) with Mr. Os- 
born, it consists on my part of deep gratitude for his kind- 
ness to my mother during her illness last winter ; — with 
him it is only politeness — the result of a gentleman’s recog- 
nition of a lady, although one occupying a very obscure po- 
sition in life.” 

Not a word was spoken between the cousins for a few 
moments after the departure of the seamstress. The si- 
lence was broken by May’s saying, 

“ Well ! I declare that girl has the manner and dignity 
of a princess, surely! Own up, Nan, you are completely 
nonplused. 

“ The impertinent piece ! I’ll pay her for this if I 
live ! ” said Miss Carroll angrily. 

Nannie Carroll was the belle of L — and a real beauty. 
She could be very fascinating and winning if she chose ; 
but naturally of a wilful, overbearing, and revengeful dis- 
position, — and woe to any one who gained her displeasure. 


THE TREACHEROUS WIND. 


Eugene Osborn was handsome, talented, and rich ; de- 
cidedly the best catch in town. He was not engaged to 
Nannie, but very much pleased with her; and everybody 
was quite confident that Nannie Carroll would secure the 
prize, if she wished to. 

Later during the day of the above conversation, Nannie 
exclaimed : 

“ Oh, Eve a thought now, May, both to have some fun, 
and at the same time revenge myself on Clara Courtney for 
her behavior this morning. Do you know that day after 
to-morrow will be the first of April ? You know I am 
quite expert in the use of my pen. I am going to write a 
lover letter, as from Eugene, and address it to that proud 
Miss, telling her how much he loves her, and so on ; and 
that he is only waiting for some token, either by word or 
manner, to encourage him to hope and speak. I. will of 
course date it April first, and sign only E. 0. If she is 
smart, she will see the date and be cautious. Failing in 
this, just think what fun it will be to have her smiling fa- 
vorably upon him, and doing the agreeable generally to the 
unsuspecting, innocent young man.” 

“ Oh ! Nannie, you surely will not do such a real wicked 
thing. The poor girl has done nothing to merit such 
treatment. And suppose Eugene should find it out; he 
would never respect you again, or forgive you either, I 
think,” said May earnestly. 

“ I shall do it. I am not a bit fearful of Eugene’s find- 
ing it out ; and if he should, I can easily bring him to my 
feet whenever I choose, by a look or smile.” 

May continued to remonstrate, but all in vain. 

The letter was written, enveloped, and directed ; and 
Nannie, taking carefully up the discarded copies, went 
down stairs to commit them to certain destruction — the 
kitchen fire. Just as she was about putting them on the 


256 THE TREACHEROUS WIND. 

flames, the door was opened by a servant, bearing an exqui- 
site bouquet of rare exotics. She handed it to Nannie, say- 
ing : 

“ Mr. Osborn’s compliments, Miss.” The treacherous 
March wind swept through the open door, scattering and 
bearing off the various slips of paper. Nannie, intent on 
admiring the beautiful present, forgot for a moment, the lit-, 
tie notes ; then suddenly exclaimed : 

“ Oh, run, Betty, Jim, and pick up every one of those 
slips of paper, and put them in this fire ! ” 

Some were overtaken and captured — “ Every one,” the 
servant said ; and Nannie, quite easy concerning the con- 
cealment of her joke, went up-stairs to show Eugene’s gift. 

The next morning found Mr. Osborn wending his way 
towards Nannie’s home. 

Stooning to pluck a few violets and crocuses, he spied 
among the bushes a slip of paper, the writing on which was 
certainly his own. He read, and an expression of great 
amazement settled on his handsome face. Then speaking 
to himself, he said: 

u What can this, mean ? My writing, surely ; but ad- 
dressed to Miss Courtney. And the few lines here are most 
certainly a declaration of love. Am I losing my mind? 
There is no ending or signature to this ; torn off, I suppose. 
I never wrote her a line in my life. Of course this is from 
some one else, whose writing is very like mine. Nothing 
very remarkable, I suppose. And she probably lost it yes- 
terday.” 

So, securing the flowers, he walked on a few steps further, 
and one more slip caught his eye. This time only two lines 
were on it : 

“ Let me know, by some token or look, that you are not 
indifferent towards one who loves you. 

Signed, 


“E. 0.” 


THE TREACHEROUS WIND. 


257 


il April 1st. I have a clue now. An April joke to be 
played on that poor girl. By whom ? Nannie ? Oh, never ! 
Yet I’ve often heard her boast of how perfectly she could 
imitate any writing. 

“ Yes, this is a copy. Ah, Nannie Carroll, your own hand 
shall decide my future course.” 

Reaching his destination, he was, as ever, cordially re- 
ceived by Nannie, his invitation accepted, and after an 
hour’s lingering, Mr. Osborn withdrew, to return in the 
evening. 

Reaching his home, he set himself to work studying 
aqjply his own heart. Could he give up the girl he loved ? 
Perhaps she was innocent, after all, of this cruel joke. 
Even if guilty, could he not forgive it? He had quite 
likely made her jealous by his yesterday’s attentions to Miss 
Courtney. If so, then it was her love for him that had 
caused her to act thus. Surely then he might forgive. 

Picking up the New York morning paper, his eye caught 
a brief notice of the failure of the bank of B — , in which 
he had a few thousand dollars deposited. A thought quick 
and decisive entered his mind. 

He too would have his April joke, and this should test 
Nannie Carroll’s heart. 

A few moments more found him at his accustomed place 
of resort, with several friends, at lunch time. 

Very sad and quiet his manner. Many were the inquir- 
ies of his friends. 

“ What on earth is the matter with you, Osborn ? You 
seem dreadfully depressed.” 

Then drawing forth the paper, Eugene pointed to the 
notice, and without a word more hastened away. His man- 
ner told them all he would have them believe. 

Like wildfire it flew. Before night it* was generally 

16 


258 


THE TREACHEROUS WIND. 


known that Eugene Osborn was ruined. Every dollar gone 
with the failure of the bank. 

It did not reach Nannie’s ears that night, and very kind 
and lovable she was. Drawing Eugene further on, until — 
yes, he truly drew her with him to the door, after bidding 
May good-night, and whispered “Nannie, your kindness 
bids me hope that you are not indifferent towards jne. Can 
you love me?” 

u I will ask myself, Eugene, to-night, and answer you to- 
morrow ; ” and smiling sweetly on him, she waved him 
good-night. 

The next morning’s papers announced with great regj^t 
and sorrow the complete ruin of Mr. Osborn. Nannie Car- 
roll read this, and exclaimed : 

“ He knew this, of course, last night. Well, well, I am 
truly sorry ; for I do like him rather better than any one 
else. But now, of course I cannot think of him any longer. 
If I were wealthy, perhaps I might yield to my heart’s 
pleading. As it is, I must make the most advantageous 
marriage possible. Papa’s worldly goods, divided among 
five children, will not give me enough to maintain me in 
such a position as I think I am justly entitled to. So adieu 
to this little love affair,” said the heartless girl. 

Eugene came — was coldly received, and decidedly re- 
jected. 

The mercenary nature, the hollow-heartedness of Nannie 
Carroll was so very apparent, that Eugene Osborn was com- 
pletely and speedily cured of the love— if love it was — he 
bore for her. 

That evening found him at the cottage of the Widow 
Courtney. She was alone. There was deep sympathy in 
her manner towards him. An occasional tear would dim 
her eye. He knew full well she too had heard the news. 

A little while after his arrival, Clara came in from a 


THE TREACHEROUS WIND. 


259 


walk. Her manner, usually so perfectly easy, was shy and 
embarrassed. She blushed deeply as he pressed her hand. 
“Yes, no doubt,” he said, “she received that cruel note; 
and what am I to believe ? really loves me ? ” 

Eugene was impulsive alwaj's, and already his decision 
was formed ; and taking leave of Mrs. Courtney, he arose 
to go, saying: 

“ Miss Clara, can I speak with you for a few moments ? 99 

Hesitating, faltering, she followed him to the next room. 
Then he asked if she had received a note from him. Of 
course she had. And Eugene Osborn soon learned that he 
had really won the heart of a true, noble girl. 

“ But Clara, since that letter was written, you have surely 
.learned of my different circumstances. Then I could offer 
you wealth, position, as well as a true heart. Now the 
world looks on me as a ruined man. Do you think of 
this ? 99 

The wealth of his love was all the true girl wished or 
cared for, and another hour found them asking Mrs. Court- 
ney’s blessing on their engagement. 

Nannie Carroll was much chagrined to find that Eugene 
did not pine away after her refusal, but seemed to be very 
happy in the society of Clara Courtney. Whispers were 
afloat that Mr. Osborn’s affairs were not quite so dreadful, 
his losses very much exaggerated, and Naunie began to 
think she had been a little too hasty in her decision. Clara 
Courtney was kept in ignorance for ever concerning the 
writer of the April note. And she did not know until after 
the quiet little wedding in the church, and Eugene descend- 
ing from the carriage in front of an elegant brown stone 
dwelling in one of the most fashionable streets, escorted his 
wife up the broad steps and welcomed her to her home, that 
she had won the wealthiest young man in town. Then 
Nannie Carroll knew what she had lost. A grand recep- 


260 


THE TREACHEROUS WIND. 


tion was given by the happy couple. An invitation was 
sent to Nannie, in which was enclosed a little slip of paper, 
on which was written : 

" March winds are treacherous, April clouds very deceiv- 
ing, but through whose darkness we may be able to find the 
clear sky beyond.” 

Nannie felt sure her April joke had not only been found 
out, but found too its reward. 

She is still unmarried, and still looking out for the most 
advantageous union. 


STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


He caught — 

No matter what; it was not what he sought. — Byrohv 


t( Madam, I can and will not stand this any longer. Ev- 
ery time I’ve returned home at an unexpected hour, I’ve 
found some one of your new admirers. I’ve determined to 
put a stop to this in some way,” said Henry Eider, in a voice 
quivering with excitement. 

He had just approached his home in time to see his beau- 
tiful young wife waving a smiling adieu to a gentleman, a 
stranger to himself. 

“ Indeed, Mr. Eider, and how do you propose to stop it. 
It is a pretty state of slavery truly, that because a woman 
is married she cannot receive the friendly visit of a gentle- 
man, or be admired by one.” 

“I shall find a way to end it, madam. I don’t wish to 
prevent your receiving an occasional visit, or being admired 
by gentlemen ; but when such an object, I cannot say gen- 
tleman, as that Warren, comes here so often, it is about 
time for me to take some notice of it.” 

“Very well, Mr. Eider, you can notice it in what manner 
you choose, but for the expression that he is no gentleman, 
I must refer you to Mr. Warren himself — feeling quite sure 
you will find out that he is a man, at any rate,” returned 
Mrs. Eider, and she walked very calmly out of the room. 

Going up to the nursery, she sent Katy with an order to 


2(52 STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 


the cook to serve dinner for Mr. Rider, who was waiting, 
and to say that she should not be in, she was going out to 
walk with little Harry ; and away she went to her 
mother’s. 

“ What is it, Mary ? I see you are worried about some- 
thing. Have you and William been quarreling ? ” 

“ Not much quarreling on my side, mamma. But Will 
is so terribly jealous and suspicious of every one. He came 
home an hour ago, and found Mr. Warren just leaving. 
Will has found him at the house several times lately, and I 
have wished so much he would come in the parlor, and let 
me introduce him. But no ; he generally pokes his head in 
the door, looking like a thunder cloud, and passes on. This 
afternoon the pent-up wrath burst forth. And I am deter- 
mined I’m not going to stay with him, and be constantly 
watched and suspected.” 

“Mary,. I think you are too hasty ! You know very well 
how jealous William was as a lover. From the husband you 
must expect the same unhappy trait of character. Try to 
adapt yourself to it as best you can. William is much older 
than you, and I have noticed he is sensitive on that subject. 
You are very lively, and still attract much admiration, so 
I do not wonder at his being a little jealous lately, for Mr. 
Warren has been so often at the house. You better go 
home, child, explain the cause of Mr. W T arren’s visits, relieve 
your husband’s mind, and be happier yourself.” 

“ Not a bit of it, mamma ! It would only be temporary 
relief; I will give Will a good lesson. This has been going 
on ever since I’ve known him, growing daily worse. He 
should have more confidence in me ! And just to think of 
his being jealous of one old enough to be my father. No, 
if I humor him this time, very soon it will be about some 
one else. I am determined to make him feel this conduct. 
If I have mercy on him now , ’twill prove cruelty in the 


STEALING THE WRONG CHILI). 263 


future. Indeed, it is too bad, when he knows so well I 
married him in preference to half-a-dozen others. Why 
cannot men be reasonable.” And poor Mary, no longer 
able to control her feelings, dropped her head in her mother’s 
lap and had a good cry. Her mother replied : 

“ There is no reason ever in jealousy, my child. I hope 
your actions may prove all for the best, but I feel rather 
uneasy about your leaving your husband’s house,” said her 
mother. 

“ Not returned yet ! ” anxiously inquired William Rider, 
on returning home about ten o’clock that evening. 

“ No, sir ; but Katy came back with the wagon and got 
the madam’s trunk and some things of little Harry’s. She 
left this note for you,” answered the cook. 

William hastily tore open the envelope and read : 

“ You have no confidence in me, nor any respect for my 
feelings. I have borne with your suspicions quite long 
enough, and have now determined to return to my mother. 
Having failed to make you happy, no doubt you will be re- 
lieved by my absence. Mary. 

“Gone ! and Harry too ! How dare she take my child 
with her ? I’ll go directly and bring her back. Perhaps I 
was a little too hasty, I’ll go and tell her so,” — and the 
sorely distracted husband paced the room in a state of great 
excitement. 

“No, I will not go — I will see how long she will hold out. 
I can bear it as long as she can, I think. It is only a fit of 
temper, and she will get over it in a day or so,” and Wil- 
liam Rider resigned himself to his solitude. The next morn- 
ing he keenly missed his usual frolic with little Harry, but 
consoling himself with the thought that Mary would prob- 
ably come home (with her mother, to make peace,) during 
the day, he ate his breakfast, and proceeded to his business. 


264 STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 


But that day, and several more passed, still Mary came 
not. He was growing very tired of his lonely house, and 
very anxious now as to the termination of the unfortunate 
difficulty. At length he came to the determination to send 
a carriage, with a note bidding her come home j so he 
wrote j 

“ Mary, you have had ample time to get over your bad 
feeling, and return to your usual good sense. Come home 
w r ith the bearer of this, and we will both forget and forgive 
the past. Tell Harry papa has missed him very much. 
Yours, as ever, William.” 

So making up his mind to be very kind and forgiving, he 
waited and watched, going from window to window, listen- 
ing for the sound of the returning carriage. At last hear- 
ing it, he rushed to the hall door, ready with open arms, to 
receive his returned treasures. There he was met by the 
driver, who bowing politely, reported that “ The lady was 
very much engaged, and that there was no answer necessary 
to the note.” Mortified, surprised and disappointed, that his 
conciliating actions had met with such a response, William 
Bider returned to his library. All the gentle, kind feelings 
turned to rage and bitterness, with no one to vent it on — 
not even that consolation for him. Oh, if he had only some 
one to relieve himself upon. No one was near, except Betty, 
the cook, and the past few days had taught him that the pre- 
servation of self comfort demanded that he should be careful 
with regard to some women’s feelings, his cook’s in partic- 
ular. 

A bright idea struck him. He would get his boy back 
home, and that would not only comfort his loneliness, but 
be a revenge on his ungrateful wife, and in the end get^her 
back again. This he could do very quietly, without any one 


STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 265 


hearing of the unpleasant occurrence between them. He 
would watch his chance and catch the child while out at 
play, and bear him off home. He felt quite sure that he 
could easily get possession of him by going to law, proving 
desertion, and so on. But William Eider had a perfect 
horror of everybody knowing his business ; so he watched 
his chance. 

Fortune favored him truly in this idea, he thought; for 
one evening near dark he was reconnoitering around his 
mother-in-law’s house, when he spied a little fellow playing 
on the door-steps with no nurse near. How well he knew 
that little suit of clothes ! Bitterly he thought of his wife’s 
neglect in allowing her child to be out without some one to 
take care of him : but it was all the better for his purpose. 
Quickly stepping up, catching and covering the child with 
his large cloak, he sprang into the carriage waiting and 
drove off exultingly. Ho one was near to see or stop him. 
His first thought was to take the boy home, but on maturer 
consideration he determined for a little while to place him 
under the care of a worthy woman formerly a housekeeper 
in his father’s family, and one very much attached to him- 
self. -.It was quite dark when he reached the place of his 
destination. Knocking at the door, which was answered by 
the woman, he placed the child in her arms, saying ; 

“ Eachel, take good care of my little boy for a few days. 
Keep him in ; it is necessary that no one should know his 
whereabouts: I will tell you more when I see you again — 
I am in great haste now.” And slipping a purse in her hand 
went home. 

How he congratulated himself^on his success ! thinking, 
“Now, my spirited little wife, I shall hear from you very 
soon.” But the night wore on and passed ; morning came, 
and still no tidings for the anxious husband. 

“ She has lost all the feelings of a mother, surely,” he 
said. 


266 STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 

About noon he was in his office, puzzling his brain over 
the quiet state of affairs, when he was surprised by a visit 
from an officer of the law, who politely requested him to pro- 
ceed immediately to the office of a Police Magistrate to an- 
swer the charge of abducting a child ! And this was to be 
the end of all his private and quiet manner of settling affairs ! 
He never dreamed his wife would attempt such means with 
him. She had lost all feelings of delicacy and respect both 
for herself and him. But it was of no use spending any 
thought about it now ; he must act ; and stepping into a 
carriage with the officer, soon reached the office of Squire 
Allright, a gentleman with whom he had long been ac- 
quainted. He greeted Mr. Eider very kindly, and saying : 

“ There must be some mistake here, sir, which I presume 
you can very easily settle. This woman has gotten out a 
warrant against you for abducting and keeping her grand- 
child, I believe you say he is, my good woman,” said the 
Squire, turning to a bright, intelligent negro woman sitting 
near him. 

“Yes, Massa Judge, my grand-son,” said the woman 
courtesy in g politely. 

Mr. Eider looked at the woman, then at the Squire, 'again 
towards the woman, took out his handkerchief, wiped his 
brow and looked the picture of perfect amazement ! 

“ Mr. Eider, will you please answer to this charge ? ” 
asked Squire Allright. 

“ Excuse. me, your honor, but really my eyes must surely 
fail me ! Is that woman white or colored ? who is she ? ” 

“Aunty, you can answer Mr. Eider,” said the Squire. 

“ I is colored, sir, and $ny name is Charity White. I is 
cook to your mother-in-law, Mrs. Armstead,” answered the 
woman, “ and ’scuse me, sir, but you ducted (as his honor 
calls it) my grand-son last night.” 

“ It is a lie, woman, a miserable, maliguant lie.” 


STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 267 


<( Order, order, Mr. Rider,” said the Squire. 

“ Mr. Rider, did you carry off any child from the premises 
of Mrs. Armstead last night ? ” 

“ I must admit I did, sir, but one I had a perfect right to, 
my own son, and none other,” answered Mr. Rider, wiping 
the perspiration from his brow. 

“ What say you to this, my good woman ? ” 

“ ’Taint so, your honor.” 

“ Mr. Rider, we will have to insist that the child be pro- 
duced here. Will you be kind enough to give this officer 
the address, that he may bring the boy here ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir, and after you have seen the boy you will 
have no further doubt as to whose child he is, and I shall try 
to find some redress for this miserable affair,” said Mr. Rider 
angrily. 

u Please, massa, wrap up de chile warm, and put some- 
thing ober his head and face, kase its mighty raw aud windy 
out, and he is got de hooping cough,” said the woman. 

Mr. Rider scowled angrily upon her, and the squire asked, 
“ Where is the child’s mother, my good woman ? ” 

“ In Heaben, I hope, massa, and dare was nebber a bet- 
ter gal. No one eber cast a word of ’proach agin her cept 
d?tt gembleman dare. I spect if you could see my son Bob, 
den you’d side rite soon bout whose chile dat boy (de officer 
going to bring) is,” answered the woman. 

In a short time the officer returned, bearing in his arms 
the child, well bundled up. 

Mr. Rider advanced, caught the boy in his arms, and pull- 
ing off the various wraps and unveiling his face, displayed 
a fine looking bright negro boy 

A murmur of suppressed mirth sounded through the room, 
and even the worthy squire had to disguise his burst of 
laughter by a violent fit of coughing. Charity chuckled 
merrily, shaking her fat sides and looking very triumphant. 


268 STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 


Silence was at length restored, and the squire looked from 
William Rider to the child, trying to gain sufficient com- 
posure to proceed, when Charity asked : 

“ Please, massa judge, can you side now if that child Hongs 
to Mr. Rider or me ? Tinks he looks much like his daddy 
what claims him ? ” 

Another murmur of suppressed mirth, and the squire, with 
a desperate attempt to compose himself again, exclaimed : 

“ Order ! order ! Mr. Rider, you see your mistake ? My 
good woman, take your child and go home.” 

“ He-he-he ! who wants de dress now ? ^Spect it will fit 
me better den Mr. Rider ! ” chuckled Charity. 

“ A word with you, aunty,” said Squire Allright. 

And he spoke for a few moments, in an undertone, to 
her. 

“ Sartin Massa, all rite. I is gwyin to keep quiet. I 
knowed how it was de suit of his son’s clothes, and de dark 
what ’ceived him,” said Charity. 

And she made her way out of the office. 

“ Mr. Rider, I deeply regret this mortifying mistake, for 
your sake. But you may rest assured that it will not be 
heard of out of this office. The only witnesses are our offi- 
cers, and you may rely on their silence. If you will waTk 
into my private room I may be able to offer you some assis- 
tance in the matter,” said Squire Allright. 

William Rider gladly accepted of the friendly aid in the 
desperate state of his affairs then, and proceeded to give his 
friend a true statement of the difficulty. 

The squire listened attentively, and, at the conclusion, 
said : 

“ Mr. Rider, I think the best thing to be done is to get 
some mutual friend to go and see Mrs. Rider, and I know 
of no one better calculated for this purpose than your law- 
yer, Mr. Noble. He is a man of great ability, discretion, 


STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 269 

and very kind heart. Seek his advice and assistance, and 
I think he will succeed in bringing to a happy conclusion 
this unhappy affair.” 

“ I will, air. Your advice is good. I will go immedi- 
ately,” and Mr. Eider bidding his friend good-bye, was soon 
in the office of Mr. Noble. 

“ How are you, Mr. Eider ! You are just the man I wish 
to see. I was just about starting with my friend Warren 
to see Mrs. Eider,” said Mr. Noble on the entry of the per- 
plexed Eider. 

(i Oh yes,” the poor fellow thought — “ Mr. Noble knows 
already about this miserable affair. I suppose she has been 
to consult him.” 

u Why what is the matter, man ? What are you looking 
so miserable about? Has good fortune turned your brain ? 
Why don’t you speak to Warren ? You are a lucky fel- 
low, truly! What say you, Warren? Don’t know Mr. 
Eider ! Not the pleasure of his acquaintance, why how is 
this ? Mr. Eider, allow me to present Mr. Warren, who 
has at last succeeded in bringing to a fortunate conclusion 
the long standing suit of ‘ Armstead versus Cheatem.’ 
Quite a feather in his cap , and impossible to imagine how 
much gold in your pocket. I begin to divine now : This 
has been a pleasant surprise Mrs. Eider has been preparing 
for you — that is why you are not acquainted with War- 
ren — Why Mr. Eider, your wife is assuredly the wealthiest 
woman in our city ! ” said Mr. Noble, cordially shaking his 
friend’s hand. 

All was plain now. The scales had fallen from William 
Eider’s eyes. What a fool he had been ! Yes, this ac- 
counted for Warren’s frequent visits. Oh ! what a day of 
mortification, and how would it end ? 

Asking for a few words in private with Mr. Noble, the 
sorety tried man told his story, and asked the lawyer’s ad- 


vice. 


270 STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 

u Take courage, my friend, we will soon have all things 
right. I am just going round to get Mrs. Rider’s signature 
to some papers, and it is necessary to have your’s also be- 
fore the final completion of the business ; so come round 
with us ! ” 

“ I must first go and explain in some manner my miser- 
able conduct to Mr. Warren,” said William Rider, and act- 
ing on the impulse he proceeded up to that gentleman, offered 
his hand and said : 

“Can you forgive my rudeness, Mr. Warren? I am 
deeply mortified, but it all arises from a very unfortunate 
trait in my composition.” 

“ Certainly, sir, with pleasure. I can fully sympathize, 
not exactly with you, but your wife — having to walk very 
circumspectly myself — Mrs. Warren having but one fault, 
and that the same as yours. So I can fully appreciate the 
present state of domestic affairs, ” said Mr. Warren, warmly 
shaking Mr. Rider’s hand. 

“ Can you forgive me, Mary ? ” inquired her husband, 
presenting himself before her an hour later. “ I cannot ap- 
pear more ridiculous in your eyes than my own. But you 
can very' well afford to be magnanimous, for I have had a 
very mortifying lesson. ” 

“ Willingly, freely, fully, William, with but one proviso — 
that is, that in the future you will have more confidence 
in your wife, and a truer, higher appreciation of your own 
worth,” said Mary, earnestly. 

“ Oh, but when a man of my very ordinary personal at- 
tractions and unfortunate temper sees his wife surrounded 
by handsome men, it makes him feel very uneasy, and you 
should have some pity on him.” 

“ William, if you would consider for a moment that your 
wife and most other women look beyond a mere handsome 
exterior for something more, something higher — a true, 


STEALING THE WRONG CHILD. 2T1 


honest heart, to risk their happiness with — I think you 
would be fully relieved from all doubts.” 

“ Yes, my children,” said Mrs. Armstead, coming forward, 
“ be assured that, without perfect trust and full confidence 
in each other, you cannot secure true happiness.” 

In years after, William Eider could not for a moment 
regret the clouds that hovered over his early married life, 
for their darkness had only served to enable him to appre- 
ciate more truly the clear sky beyond — the brightness of 
which is so easily secured, in the wedded life, by all reason- 
able men and women. 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


“ l'y thy cold breast and serpent smile. 

By thy unfathomed depths of guile. 

By that most seeming virtuous eye, 

By thy shut soul’s hypocrisy. 

By the perfection of thine art, 

Which passed for human, thine own heart, • 
I call upon thee and compel 
Thyself to me thy proper hell.” 


“ Have I ever, my dear Neta, since your father, on his 
dying bed, placed your hand in mine and bade 1 me he a 
mother to his orphan child,’ denied you one wish ? Do 
you know, that had I not some good reason for my objection 
to your receiving Mr. Asquith’s attentions, I would not thus 
urge you to decline his invitation for to-morrow evening ? ” 

“ Auntie, how can I do it now ? I have already promised, 
and must go. Only see what I have done in my careless- 
ness. Upset your work-box, and scattered every thing on 
the floor. Never mind, I’ll have them back all right in a 
few moments,” exclaimed Neta, and she began gathering 
up the various articles and placing them in the box. 

While thus engaged, her eyes fell on a small miniature 
case, which she took up, saying : 

“ I may open and look, Aunty ? ” 

“ Yes, dear, and when you have examined that face, tell 
me what you think of it.” 

Neta,. opening the case, gazed long and earnestly on the 
features painted there. Well she might. It was so bright, 
beautiful and bewildering, that one looking upon it, could 

( 272 ) 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


273 


not fail to be fascinated, spell bound. Long she continued 
to gaze — at length with a shudder she closed the case and 
said : 

“ Here, Auntie, take it, I never want to see it again. 
She is very beautiful — but I have a feeling of horror as I 
look at her. It seems like a fearful dream. Where have I 
seen that girl ? 0 ! now I know. It is the striking re- 
semblance to Lucian Asquith, that makes her seem so fa- 
miliar. She must be his sister.” 

“ No, not his sister, but a very near relative. I was sure 
you would recognize the remarkable likeness. And now I 
have something to tell you relative to the original of that 
picture, which you should have known ere this, certainly 
before Mr. Asquith’s attentions became so marked.” 

“Why Auntie, not more so than Will. Marron’s, and yet 
you do not seem to be anxious concerning him. Indeed, I 
think you really dislike Lucian for some imaginary cause 
for which I think he is quite undeserving,” said Neta, pet- 
ulantly. 

There was silence for a few moments, and then, Neta go- 
ing up, put her arms around her aunt, saying : 

“ Do not be worried with me, Aunty, I did not mean to 
be cross, I will not go, if you think it best. I can send a 
note of regrets, and so on. Now, please Aunty, tell me 
‘ the story.’ ” 

“ I will, dear, but first tell me, do you like him very 
much ? ” 

“ Like him very much ? why certainly , who could help 
it ? I like to have him (the one bright particular star of 
our circle) devoting himself so completely to me. The very 
fact of his preference, is quite sufficient to make a belle of 
any girl forthwith. This is only a flirtation, a little fun, 
and quite harmless to both, ‘ we are diamond cut 
diamond.’ ” 

17 


274 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


A suppressed groan escaped from the listener, and she 
said : 

“ Oh, my child ! Once before have those very same 
words fallen on my ear, by one very dear to you.' Ah yes ! 
As gay and thoughtless of all future consequences as you. 
‘Only a flirtation, real fun and perfectly harmless ’ were 
the words. But oh, the terrible future ! ” and a visible 
shudder passed over Neta’s gentle monitor. 

“ Oh ! Aunty, you terrify me ! Why do you attach so 
much importance to my thoughtless words?” asked Neta : 
deeply impressed b} r her aunt’s words and manner. 

“ I shall probably never have a better opportunity, my 
dear child, of opening your eyes and bid you see and feel 
your only fault. This I must do, before answering your 
questions, by unfolding the past. Neta, you have a 
warm pure heart, but oh ! darling, in it dwells a bitter 
enemy to all hopes of happiness — the Pride of Conquest ! 
the Knowledge of Power over the hearts of many. Yes, 
dear, as harsh as this may sound, 'tis true. You win the 
love, never thinking how deeply you may afterwards 
wound.” 

“ Has it never occurred to you, that the bright, pure lus- 
tre of a woman’s fair fame became dimmed by having her 
name frequently associated with various admirers ? Do 
you not think a high-minded noble man would sooner win 
for his own a flower whose loveliness was hidden from the 
public eye ? It may please the pride of a man to be able to 
secure a prize from the many. But I think that his confi- 
dence, respect, appreciation and devotion, is bestowed on 
the woman that he is conscious of having first taught to 
love ; whose eyes have gazed lovingly into his only ; 
whose dear hand has been warml}' clasped in his alone. 

“ The woman who smiles on the many, yet to each con- 
veying by mystic signs the false idea, that he is the favored 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


275 


one ; who allows her hand, which should be kept a sacred 
offering for pure true love, to be held by countless poor de- 
luded mortals, must look forward to future distrust in the 
mind of the man who may claim her as his wife ! ” 

Her aunt paused. A deep flush of mortification dyed 
Neta’s fair face as she said : 

“ Oh Aunty, you are very cruel ! Am I such a 
woman ? ” 

“ Ask yourself, my child ! It distresses me. much to 
speak thus to you. But I have confidence in your power to 
conquer, and rise above these errors. And now my love, I 
must beg of you to withdraw yourself from Mr. Asquith’s 
influence. I would sooner array you in your burial robes, 
than deck you for the bride of Lucian Asquith.” 

“I promised your father never to reveal to you the man- 
ner of your mother’s death ; unless I should deem it neces- 
sary for your own good, and now the time has come. 

“ You can have no remembrance of her, for you were less 
than a year old when she died. 

“ We were friends from childhood — Cora Manners, (your 
mother), Lucille Lascelle, and I — liviug in the same street, 
pupils of the same infant school, afterwards boarders in the 
same seminary, and, finally, entering society together. 

“ Of faultless beauty both of form and feature was Lu- 
cille, but of an imperious, jealous disposition. 

“ Your mother’s gentle, modest loveliness soon, however, 
conquered the heart that had been proof against all Lu- 
cille’s fascinating power. Lieut. Dayton (your father) was 
at that time the target at which all the fair maidens 
directed their sly shots, and all the mammas their most de- 
liberate ones. But all of no avail. He wooed and won 
Cora’s pure heart. 

tl During the engagement, which was kept very quiet, 
Lucille continued her attempts ‘to conquer ; and so far he 




276 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


yielded to her wiles that rumor whispered she was sure of 
him if she wished. I saw all this ; and fearing for Cora’s 
happiness, I ventured to speak, warning him of the possible 
result of his fatally wounding Cora’s sensitive nature. 

“Just at that time she entered the room, and he arose; 
and, drawing her down beside him, said : 

“ ‘ My little daisy, have you for a moment doubted me ? 
Listen, love, and be forever assured that, even, were you to 
cast me off, I would never be more to Lucille than now. I 
have no confidence in her; I could never love her. She is 
just the girl for the ball-room, and it is real fun to bear her 
off to the dance, triumphing over the many poor wretches 
who are fawning around her. I could not take her to my 
heart, or find a home where she dwelt. This has been only 
a flirtation, and perfectly harmless to both.’ 

“ A few weeks after this, he received orders to sail for a 
three years’ vo} r age. He pleaded for an immediate union ; 
but Cora’s father would not listen for a moment. 

“ 1 She was only seventeen ; and they must wait until his 
return,’ the old gentleman said. 

“ Every moment of spare time he devoted to his betroth- 
ed, and seldom met Lucille. Cora was now happy in the 
blessed assurance that she ‘ was all the world to him ; 9 and 
so they parted. 

“ In less than two months after this, Lucille married a 
Mr. Andrews — an old man, of immense wealth. 

“ The parents of Lucille were in very moderate circum- 
stances, and it was a hard struggle to meet her frequent 
demands for elegant apparel. 

.“ She went to Europe. I married, and went to my hus- 
band’s home in the city of L . Thus we were all sep- 

arated. 

“Frequently I had letters from Cora, and occasionally 
one from Lucille. She was the reigning queen of beauty 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 277 

and fashion, among the Americans in Paris. But I could 
plainly see she was not happy. 

“ She never alluded to vour mother, save in the last letter 
I had from her. 

“ In that, she said that she had seen in a paper, received 
from home, of the arrival of the 1 Arcadia ’ from the 
Indies, and in the list of officers, Lieutenant Dayton’s 
name. That now she supposed Cora would soon be mar- 
ried. She should not send her congratulations, for she 
hoped to be home in time to tender them herself. 

“Very soon after this came a loving, joyous letter from 
Cora, entreating me to come to her wedding. 

“ This was impossible for me to do. 

“My husband was ill. Always of a verjr delicate consti- 
tution, consumption found but slight resistance. I was 
soon a widow ! 

“ I cannot dwell on that time of trial and sorrow. 

“ Cora and her husband, on their return from the wed- 
ding tour, came to visit me in my home then so desolate. 
I love to think of her, as I saw her then ; as she stood be- 
fore me, 'encircled by her husband’s arm, and saying : 

“ ‘ I am so happy, Ada ! Nothing is wanting, except to 
see your old smile ; your sorrow is my only cloud.’ 

“ A year passed on, and then came a letter from her, 
which gave me great uneasiness. A chilling fear crept 
over me : I could not throw it off. Here is the letter ; 
read it for yourself.” 

Neta held this time-worn messenger from her mother’s 
aching heart, long before her — her eyes were blinded with 
tears. At length she read : 

“ Ada — Dearest friend, come again amongst us. There 
is nothing now to keep you. Come to your home — to me. 
I have a little girl scarce two months old — a blessed boon 


278 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


from Heaven. When this little bud, this promise of great- 
er happiness, first came to me, I used to wonder how I had 
merited such joy — such a happy lot. But, Ada, with all 
this, there is a cloud — oh ! so dark and threatening ! For 
the sake of our loug friendship, our loving intimacy, come ! 

“ Lucille is here at her home, a widow. 

“Yours in love and sorrow, Cora Dayton.” 

“I immediately divined the cause of her trouble. There 
was really nothing to prevent my return to my former 
home. My parents had often urged it, so I had to comply. 
In ten days after the receipt of that sad letter I was sitting 
beside Cora, with your little form clasped to my bosom. 
She tried to be bright and cheerful, but I saw what a strug- 
gle it was. 

Your father came in, kissed her as tenderly and loving 
as ever, saying to me : 

“ ‘ Ada, I hope you will brighten my little wife up. She 
seems very nervous and low-spirited. She has not been 
strong since the arrival of this little love ; f and he caught 
you up, and seemed very proud and fond of you. 

“ After he went out, 1 asked : 

“ ( What is it, Cora ? 9 

“ Her lips quivered, as she answered : 

“ 1 You will see for yourself; ’ and I did. 

“Later in the afternoon Lucille, presuming on her for- 
mer intimacy, came, unushered, into Cora’s room. With her 
was her son, a remarkably handsome child of about three 
years, very like his mother. Far more beautiful than I had 
ever seen her was she, clad in her deep mourning robes. 
Thus we met again : I, stricken and bowed with sorrow ; 
she, triumphing in wealth and freedom. 

“ She lavished her sweet words and caresses on Cora and 
the baby — remained several hours, and then started up, 
saying : 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


279 


“ 4 Ok ! it is quite dark ; I had no idea it was so late ; 
and I am such a miserable coward. Cora, I shall have to 
beg your husband’s attendance home.’ 

“ Then, smiling and bidding adieu, she left with her little 
one, and of course your father went with her. 

u The door closed on them, and Cora said: 

“‘Thus it is, almost every evening, some pretext or an- 
other bringing her here, or calling him to her. I know my 
husband loves me, but greatly fear her influence over him.’ 

“ One evening Lucille sent for your father to attend her 
to the opera. 

“ ‘ Must you go ? ’ asked Cora, in pleading tones. ‘ I 
feel so sad to-night. Do stay home.’ 

“ He turned ; gazed' at her long and earnestly ; noticing, 
I think, for the first time, her wan, pale face, and said, 
gently: 

“ ‘ 1 think I must, love. Ada will stay with you. I have 
promised her, but I am getting tired of this ‘old flirtation.’ 
he said, nodding to me, ‘and I shall end it right away. Do 
not worry, Cora, love : be sure you have no serious cause ; ’ 
and kissing her and his babe, he left us. 

“ ‘ He is true to you, Cora. She has bewitched him 
somewhat, but I truly think he is tired of it,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Oh, Ada ! — I really fear her, she looks at me so wild, 
and with a frightful expression, sometimes; but then it is 
gone so quickly, and she looks at me so loving, I almost 
think I must be mistaken,’ Cora answered. 

“‘Tell your husband all your fears: tell him, too, that 
this intimacy is giving rise to reports prejudicial to both. 
I think he will see the propriety of an immediate change.’ 

“ She did, that night, after his return, and when I went 
into her room, the next morning, I was amazed to see how 
bright and cheerful and happy she looked. She was sing- 
ing to you. Throwing her arms around me, she said : 


280 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


i( 1 You were right, Ada; he is true to me, and is so sor- 
ry he has grieved me so much. See, he has written this 
note to her, and told me I might show it to you ; it would 
relieve you, as well as reassure me/ 

“ The note was to this effect : That it had come to his 
knowledge, recently, that the intimacy, existing between 
them, was causing remarks prejudicial to her fame. Thif 
he considered his duty to endeavor to stop immediately. 
She would recognize the propriety of his declining to appear 
with her in public again. His wife had suffered much from 
his seeming neglect, and in the future he should^ try to prove 
to her, and the world, that the vows he plighted at the altar 
were not idle words, and ended by saying he should leave 
town, in a few days, with his wife, for a Southern tour, hop- 
ing to improve her failing health. 

“ Neta, how can I tell you the awful tragedy of the next 
few hours ! ” And Ada Harland’s face foreshadowed the 
telling of a terrible story. 

She grew composed after a little while, and Heta listened, 
almost breathless, as she proceeded. 

“ I left my dearest friend to spend a few hours with my 
parents. Never since that day of horror, have I failed to 
act according to instinct. Every step I took from my friend 
I was seemingly drawn back. I never went so reluctantly 
in my life. I reached home, mother noticed my uneasiness 
and inquired the cause. 

“I could not explain it. I hastened to return. I was then 
impelled forward as mysteriously as I was before drawn 
back. 

I reached the house, was just entering the door, when a 
woman, deeply veiled, rushed by, almost throwing me down, 
and was out of sight before I recovered from my surprise. I 
went quickly up the stairs ; at the first flight I was met by 
Eido, Cora’s little pet dog. He was whining and barking 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


281 


piteously. Gazing down at him, I saw, oh, horror! his 
paws were dripping with blood. How I reached the room 
I know not. In the same chair as I had left her, beside 
your cradle, fallen back apparently lifeless, was your mother. 
My screams brought up the servants. I endeavored to 
staunch the blood which was flowing from a wound in her 
breast. A physician and your father were soon found. The 
former gave us no hope ; he shook his head sadly. After a 
while we noticed she was showing signs of returning con- 
sciousness. She murmured your father’s name, and tried 
to lift her arms to him, but they were powerless. He drew 
near, raised her head and pillowed it on his bosom. She 
whispered, ‘ Lucille.’ I have never heard such a groan of 
agony as burst from his lips. She seemed distressed by 
this. Again she whispered, and we heard the words, ‘Love 
my little one for me.’ The kind doctor held you to her. 
She kissed you many times, and said : 

“ •' Take her, Ada.’ She grew weaker rapidly. Smiling 
sweetly, she murmured something, of which we could only 
hear the words, ‘Follow on.’ 

“ With her eyes lifted and beaming with an unearthly 
light, she went before us. Lucille was found in the woods, 
several miles away, a raving maniac. She died a few weeks 
after in the Lunatic Asjduin of W. Your father’s terrible 
grief and remorse wore his life rapidly away. In three 
years he followed jmur mother, and left his orphan girl to 
my love and care. Before his death he told me he had 
learned that Lucille, after receiving his note, was terribly 
agitated, and raving wildly, rushed out of her home. Her 
friends endeavored to follow her, but she eluded them, and 
they never saw her again until she was found in the woods. 
Also, that lie had found a little dagger, which he had seen 
Lucille have, lying just outside Cora’s room. 

“ Lucian Asquith is Lucille’s son ; he was adopted by his 
father’s sister, and bears her name. 


282 


ONLY A FLIRTATION. 


“ Now, my dear, you know why I so much dread a flirta* 
tion, most of all with Lucille’s son.” 

Neta was very much agitated by the history of the past. 
It was some time before she became calm. At length she 
said: 

“ Thank Heaven, Aunty, this has gone no further. Lu- 
cian has never breathed a word of love to me. I will go 
away for a visit, return with uncle Harry and my cousins, 
and so end this acquaintance, which I can well imagine is 
a source of great anxiety to you. And now, my dear 
mother’s best friend, I will promise that I will from this 
time endeavor to conquer these faults, which I am now so 
sensible may prove fatal to peace and happiness.” 

Neta left with her cousins for a tour of pleasure, and 
during her absence Lucian transferred his attentions to a 
new beauty ; and in a few months after Mrs. Harland had 
the great pleasure of decking Neta for the bride of her 
special favorite, Will. Marron. 


THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


" Always for the want of news they pine — 

And if there’s anything in which they shine, v 
*Tis in arranging all their friends’ affairs, 

Not minding well their own domestic cares.*’ 


Most small towns and villages are noted for the gossip- 
ing propensity of their inhabitants ; but perhaps no other 
place enjoyed that reputation to such a degree as the vil- 
lage of Eastville ; where the worthy people manifested 
their understanding of the command, “Thou shalt love thy 1 ' 
neighbor as thyself,” by attending to the business and do- 
mestic concerns of that or those persons in preference to 
their own. 

Eastville was now busy in considering the merits pro and 
con. of their new minister — young Brother Allworth. Yes j 
at last, they had an unmarried man ! 

They had sent their delegates to the Convention with the 
understanding “ to accept none but a young man,” mean- 
ing one unencumbered — the real truth being that the mam- 
mas wanted a chance towards matrimony for their daugh- 
ters — for a wedding was a rare occurrence in Eastville ; 
and the worthy dames had come to the conclusion that if 
they had an unmarried minister with them, that his friends 
(brothers in the ministry) who should visit him, most likely, 
would be like himself — a chance for their girls ! and so it 
was this time ; just the one they wanted came. 

“Forewarned is to be forearmed,” proved a true saying 

( 283 ) 


284 THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 


in this case. Brother Heartwell gave his young friend a 
full and true account of his late charge — their weaknesses, 
and particularly their “ ruling passion.” 

“Do the very best you can, and it will prove the very 
worst. Try to please by your hopeful encouraging ser- 
mons, and Sister Smith will declare you have entirely too 
much levity in your manner and discourse. Profit by this, 
and give them an earnest, appealing and threatening one, 
and Brother Jones will vow you look as if you were about to 
sign the death warrant of the whole congregation, and then 
preach as if there was no salvation for them afterwards. 

“ Oh ! may the good Lord deliver me from such people 
again ! Most likely you will get on with them the first 
term, hut look out for the second ; you will not get 
through. No one ever has. They will be down on you 
-when you least expect it, and about what you will not find 
out until they choose to tell you ! ” said the worthy brother. 

“ Thank jmu, Brother Heartwell, for the insight you 
have given me as to the character of my new parishioners, 
although there appears but poor comfort for me, and little 
hope that I shall prove a comfort to them, yet I think your 
account will aid me somewhat in my future course with my 
charge,” said Mr. Allworth. 

He determined not only to govern himself according to 
circumstances, but likewise to characters. So when with 
Brother Jones and his cheerful girls, the 3 r oung minister 
was perfectly natural, happy and hopeful as these. On the 
contrary, when visiting Sister Smith, whose daughter Pa- 
tience, being of no particular age, and imbibing her moth- 
er’s gloomy disposition, could not, to save her, feel content 
and happy, particularly since Parmer Hayworth had (de- 
spite all her endeavors, and her mother’s invitation to par- 
take of endless good things of her production) gone and 
married one those gay, worldly Jones girls. With 


THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 285 

these folks Brother Allworth was grave and rather quiet, 
conversing on just such subjects as he thought would please 
them. When surrounded by all dispositions, where ex- 
tremes met, he endeavored to maintain a happy medium. 
Thus suiting all — and so it really happened that during the 
first term of his ministry with the people of Eastville, they 
had for the only time, one with whom all were pleased. 
So the delegates went up to Baltimore to attend the annual 
conference with orders to get Brother Allworth back for 
another term, and not to hear for a moment of the coming 
of any other. 

It was in Mrs. Hawke’s pretty, comfortable little cottage, 
that the young minister made his home. One day while 
this sister was busily engaged giving his apartment a good 
cleaning against the return of the occupant, Sister Jones 
chanced to drop in, and finding what her friend was about, 
ventured to say : 

“ You’ll not have that trouble very much longer, Sister 
Hawke, I reckon.” 

“ I’d like to know why not I ? ” replied Sister Hawke. 

“ Oh, no offence to you. I’m certain sure that Brother 
Allworth is mightily pleased with his home, but — well, you 
know it would be only natural for him to make his home 
with his wife’s relations ” 

“ Oh, yes ! now I know what you mean. Sister Smith 
was in here a minute ago and she hinted as much herself. 
Well, Patience is a nice gal, but I should think she was a 
little too old for our brother — but that’s a good fault.” 

“ Sister Smith ! Patience ! Marry ! Brother All- 
worth ! ” gasped Sister Jones, scarcely able to speak for 
her astonishment. 

“ Why, what an awful ” and here she stopped short, 

either from prudential motives, or want of breath. Possi- 
bly it flashed through her mind that Sister l^iwke was not 


286 THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 


a safe person to express her opinion to, concerning the 
truthfulness of another sister, and she did not care to be 
called up before the church for accusing one of the mem- 
bers of direct falsehood. So, gaining a little composure, she 
proceeded: 

“ Sister Smith may think what she says, but I know that 
Brother Allworth only goes there as his duty calls him, and 
he comes to my house on a different business. Every body 
can see — if they choose to use their eyes— -that it’s my 
Sally he’s looking after. But time will prove who is right. 
I hope you won’t speak of this to any body ! ” 

Sister Hawke, of course, promised to be very quiet, and 
gained from her sister the same with regard to what she 
had told her about Patience Smith, and as a testimony 
thereof, before night all Eastville were busy considering 
this important question. 

The delegates returned. u Is Brother Allworth coming 
back ? ” was the universal inquiry. 

“ Yes,” — and then the worthy brothers’ eyes grew sad, 
faces long, and shaking their heads in a very ominous man- 
ner, said : 

“ They feared that they had all made a very grave mis- 
take ; Brother Allworth was not what he should be.” 

“ But he is all he need be for us } and good enough for 
us,” said Sister Hawke. 

“ Ah, so we all thought. But now — oh dear, dear, what 
wickedness there is in this world ! Who can be true ? 
Listen, while I whisper what I know , what my own eyes 
have witnessed,” and Brother Jones whispered in the vari- 
ous sisters’ ears the story, but in a voice so low and deep, 
that we could not catch it, my dear reader, and will have to 
wait patiently for a while to hear the charge. 

A deep groan escaped from the lips of the listeners ! 
And then son^ one ventured to suggest that there must be 
some mistake. 


THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 287 

“ No, it was too true. Brother J ones could and would 
prove it.” 

“ Oh ! ” groaned forth Sister Smith. “ What a deceiving 
man ! How we all loved him ! and only think, sister, he 
has christened our children ” 

“ Thank heaven, we can have them christened over 
again ! ” said Sister Brightthought. 

“ Buried our dead,” resumed Sister Smith. 

“ That can’t be undone,” answered another sister. 

“ Married our daughters ” 

“ No, not quite, although you offered him a good chance 
and great inducements.” 

“And you ought to thank him for resisting your at- 
tempts,” said Sister Hawke, spitefully, and darting an an- 
gry look toward both Sister Smith and Brother Jones. 
She was very fond of the young minister, and held a slight 
hope (despite all the seeming truth of the charge) that he 
would prove all things right in the end. 

The minister returned, and very soon discovered that 
something was wrong. Every body looked dark and gloomy. 
The sun even did not seem to shine as brightly, or the sky 
so blue as it was. The whole atmosphere was chilled. 
Merry Sally Jones’s ringing laugh was hushed; Patience 
Smith relaxed into deeper gloom than ever, and his cordial, 
kind and attentive hostess was quiet, and looked at him so 
sad, and wore a look of such disappointment whenever he 
was near her. What could it mean? He never was so 
happy in his life before ! Well, well, he must wait for time 
to tell the trouble, and appear not to notice it, he thought. 

Many secret meetings were held — praj'ers at various sis- 
ters’ houses, which he was not invited to attend. 

“My time has come at last ! I might have known that it 
would come some time. I could not expect so much better 
luck than all my predecessors. But what on earth have I 
done to occasion all this change ? ” 


288 THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 

At last the deacons of the church called a public meeting, 
and requested the presence of the minister. The usual pre- 
liminaries gone through with, one of the deacons arose and 
stated that : 

“ With the deepest regret they had felt it their duty to 
request their brother’s presence on that occasion to answer 
a charge made against him of the gravest character. He 
trusted that this charge could be met and dealt witty in such 
a manner by their hitherto much respected and beloved 
brother, that it would not only satisfy the brethren and 
prove his innocence, but restore their brother to his former 
high position in their esteem. It had been charged that 
Brother Allvvorth was in Baltimore during the meeting of 
conference, in the company of and occupying the same 
apartments in Barnum’s Hotel with — ” and here the worthy 
deacon stopped, drew out his handkerchief, wiped his brow 
and drew a long deep breath, and gasped forth — “ A mar- 
ried woman ! ” 

The deacon dropped in his seat. 

The minister started to his feet. His face flushed with 
anger — and in a voice quivering with excitement, he de- 
manded the name of the person, who dared to utter such a 
charge against him ? One so entirely false. 

Brother Jones arose and said it was he, and asked: 

" If Brother Allworth could persist in denying the 
charge ? ” 

The minister stopped suddenly then! his hand in his 
pocket, drew forth his handkerchief, covered his face and 
sank into his chair. 

“ Convicted ! guilty ! His manner proves it too truly ! ” 
were the whispered comments. 

A profound silence ensued for a few moments, during 
which was heard a groan or so, and then an audible sob 
from the bosom of some soft-hearted sister, probably Sally 
J ones or Mrs. Hawke. 


THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 289 


The minister arose, removed his handkerchief, and dis- 
played a face on which were unmistakable signs — not of 
guilty emotion, but suppressed mirth. 

“ The hardened sinner ! ” whispered Sister Smith. 

“ I cannot" deny the charge, Brother Jones — it is true,” 
and here the minister’s face broke forth into a becoming 
smile. “I shall take the pleasure of introducing that lady 
to you as soon as possible.” 

A distinct groan now issued from some one, and was 
immediately followed by many more. 

“As my wife ! Mrs. Allworth !” added the minister. 

After the surprise had subsided in a slight degree, and 
the whisperings in a measure ceased, the minister proceeded 
to state : 

u That he had, as they well knew, gone to his home a few 
days previous to the meeting of conference, and then and 
there consummated an engagement of two years’ standing. 
That his wife accompanied him to Baltimore, and then re- 
turned to her home, until the deacons could repair the par- 
sonage, or he could make some arrangements for her recep- 
tion in the home of one of the kind sisters of the church. 
That his first answer that the charge was false they must 
excuse — for it was occasioned by his great surprise ; and, 
in truth, he had hardly gotten accustomed to regard himself 
in the position of a married man, or to remember he had 
been in company with a married woman.” 

Not a word more was spoken by the deacons. What 
could they say ? But one after another came forward, 
grasped his hand and pressed it warmly. He felt his old 
position was regained, and they were all glad to have it so. 
The sisters endeavored to show their regret for their hasty 
judgment, by every one offering her home for the reception 
of Mrs. Allworth. Mrs. Hawke was so delighted at his in- 
nocence (for “ she had nothing to regret, as she never 
18 


290 THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 

judged him wrongly ” she said) that she actually hugged 
her favorite, and didn’t care if she did — as she was old 
euough for his mother. 

There was a tear in the eye of merry Sally Jones, and a 
sigh in the heart of Patience Smith, but they both came 
forward to clasp their minister’s hand. 

The people of Eastville had that day received a salutary 
lesson. And it was impressed forcibly on their minds and 
deeply in their hearts by the next Sabbath’s sermon, in 
which their minister spoke so feelingly of the wrong of hasty 
judgments, begged them so earnestly to consider well before 
they spoke aught of ill ; to have charity toward one and all ; 
to rather hide than display their neighbors’ faults ; to be- 
lieve in their innocence, until their guilt was proven ; to 
judge not by appearances ; and above all, it behooved Chris- 
tians to keep their hearts from evil thinking and their 
tongues from evil speaking. 

This sermon, and the event which called it forth, made a 
lasting impression and great improvement in the character 
of the people of Eastville. The last I heard of them, the 
deacons were considering the propriety of suggesting that 
there should be a new article added to those requisite for 
membership in the church — namely, “ That of minding 
one’s own business.” 

The young minister did admire merry Sally Jones, as her 
mother had thought, and sang her praises so continually to 
a brother minister, that he induced him to come and know 
her, which he did, and before many months had passed 
Eastville rejoiced in a wedding the first time for years so 
many they could not be remembered. Soon after this happy 
occurrence there came to visit Brother Allworth, a brother, 
grave and sorrowful, mourning the loss of a loving wife. 
’Twas sad ; of course he needed sympathy, and some one 
to help him mourn. No one could do this more effectually 


THE GREAT PARISH SCANDAL. 291 


than Patience Smith, and so she did, and is now hand in 
hand endeavoring to console and comfort him through the 
journey of life. 

All bless the day which brought Brother All worth among 
them ; the mother and daughter particularly. He suited 
them in every way. Matrimony is still prevalent. A wed- 
ding is no longer a nine-days’ wonder, and Eastville is fast 
losing the bad name that had clung to it so long. 


LOYE UNTO DEATH 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


“ Oh ! let me still but breathe the air, 

The blessed air, that’s breathed by thee ; 
And e’en if on its wings it bear 
Illness or Death ’tis life to me.” 


“ Doctor Manning, tell me of my dearest friend and 
school-mate, Dora Austin ? ” I asked. “ You were her 
physician, adviser and confidant ; and I feel sure from no 
one else could I obtain so full and true a statement of the 
events which transpired after I left her ten years ago.” 

“Yes my dear madam, I can and will. It is no idle curi- 
osity that prompts you to seek this knowledge of one of 
the purest, truest and most devoted hearts that ever suffered 
for man. You knew, you loved her. YVhen I think of 
that dear girl, how deeply I feel the truth of those poetic 

words : 

u Men cannot love as women do.” 

“ Few of us merit the devotion, the self-sacrificing affec- 
tion, which is so often lavished on man, by such as Dora 
Austin,” answered the doctor in a voice quivering with 
emotion. 

The doctor was an old bachelor. A thought flashed 
through my mind. Was I not probing a hidden wound? 
Perhaps he had loved her! While I was pondering over 
the probability of this, he asked : 

“ When did you see her last ? ” 

“ The Winter of 185 — . I was with her, at the time of 

(292) 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 293 

her engagement to Abner Grayson. I remained until after 
the arrival of her cousin from Europe,” I answered. 

** I was absent then, I have often wished to know the 
particulars of those few months. Tell me, if you please, 
all that happened during your visit, and then you shall 
hear her sorrowful story,” said the doctor, and rising, he 
walked to the window for a few moments — X think to con- 
ceal and calm his agitation. He returned, seated himself, 
and motigned me to proceed. 

“ As I told you before, Dora and I were schoolmates. I 
accepted the invitation so often urged, to visit her, and 
there met Abner Grayson. I knew of him, well. She 
would many times in our school days, tell me how hand- 
some, and talented he was. How kind to her. I knew she 
loved him ; long before she would admit it even to herself. 
When I would tell her so, she would always answer, 1 I 
love him as if he was my brother, he has ever been as such 
to me, nothing else. We have grown up together. Our 
plantations join. Abner is such an ardent admirer of beau- 
ty ; he could never look on one so very plain looking as 
I, with any feelings, other than simple friendship.” 

“ I had been with Dora about a week ; when one after- 
noon I was sitting reading in a deeply curtained window. 
I was so absorbed in my book, that I had no knowledge of 
anyone entering the room, until my attention was attracted 
by the deep, manly voice of Mr. Grayson, wooing Dora in 
soft, loving tones. 

“ My first idea was to let them know of my presence. 
Then I thought it would be better for me to remain quiet 
than to interrupt them, at that moment so fraught with 
fond hopes and bright anticipations. 

“ Thus it was I became a listener to their betrothal. 

" Dora still clung to the idea that he could not love her, 
because she was not beautiful. She said : 


294 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 


“ ‘ Abner, wait until you have seen my cousin before you 
give your heart to me. You will surely love her better 
than you possibly can me. Remember how fond you were 
of her, years ago, in our childhood. She is far more beau- 
tiful now. Papa says she is the fairest woman he has ever 
seen. She is coming home to us. She is an orphan now. 
Next month she will be here.” 

“ Then he answered her : 

“ ‘ You dear, shy little bird — do not try to fly away, and 
bid me seek a mate of brighter plumage ! Come nestle 
down beside me, love, and let me try to prove to you how 
lovely you truly are. I admire the beautiful, Dora, but I 
love the good. You are all and everything I would have 
you : nothing wanting. I would not change one feature, 
one glance of yours, darling, for the fairest woman on 
earth. I know your heart, how true and pure it is, and I 
must woo until I win it. Whisper to me, Dora, that you 
love me a little.’ ■< v 

“ ‘ You know I do love you, Abner. Who else have I 
had to love, since my childhood, but papa and you ! You 
have been playmate, friend and brother.’ 

“ Excuse me, doctor, but then came forth the selfish, ex- 
acting nature of man, in the words : 

“ ( Dora, do not talk of such love to me. ’Tis not as this 
I would be loved. I would have you 

“ Love me not in fancy; love me not in fear; 

But love me as if life doubled in thee when I am near.” 

Thus, or not at all, would I be loved.’ 

“ ‘ Abner,’ she answered, ‘ if you will tell me this again, 
after you have seen Lillian, then I will be to you all you 
wish. Your happiness is dearer to me than my own.’ 

“ ‘ Then you will soon be truly my own. Come, little one, 
look at yourself in this mirror. Why, truly, you are grow- 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 295 

ing beautiful. Your eyes are beaming brightly; and now 
your cheeks are like blush roses ! ’ 

“ He led her from the glass, and out on the piazza ; and 
I escaped to my room. 

“ Very devoted he continued to be ; and Dora really 
looked so happy that her little plain face became quite 
pretty. 

The next month brought the beautiful Lillian Frost. 

Lillian Frost ! How wonderfully were her name and 
nature adapted to each other ! — beautifully fair, and cruelly 
cold. 

“ How I watched Abner when he first beheld her. But 
he was not as I feared, dazzled by her great beauty. 

“ She was not animated, spirited enough for him. She 
did not seem to care to be attractive then. 

“ So Abner again wooed my friend, and she wore his be- 
trothal ring. 

' “ Then Lillian began her arts to draw him from her 
cousin. First, I really think she was only in fun, trying 
to see if she could make Dora jealous. Afterward she was 
herself caught, and loved Abner as well as she was capable 
of loving any one. 

“ My visit was near its close. A few days before I left, 
I heard him say : 

“ ‘ Why do you not wear your hair like your cousin, 
Dora ? And do wear something light and pretty, like Lil- 
lian’s gossamer robes. You dress so very plain. You 
should try and look brighter, love.” 

“ I knew then Dora’s happiness would surely be 
wrecked! I returned to my home. Every four weeks I 
would have a letter from her. She tried to conceal her 
heart from me. But I knew her so well ! I knew she was 
trying to prepare herself for the end ! At last she wrote 
me thus : 


296 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 


“ My True Friend. — Do not let the contents of this letter 
grieve your dear warm heart. Know that I am content, 
that Abner’s happiness is mine. He has found out that he 
loved me as a dear friend or sister. Lillian is more than 
this to him. I saw the mistake before you left me. Indeed 
before he was fully sensible of it. 

“ He struggled hard to be true to his faith with me. But 
the attempt was making him miserable. I watched for a 
good opportunity to make him happy. I had not long to 
wait. 

“ I was reclining on the sofa in the music room. It was 
twilight. Lillian came in, did not notice me, and began 
one of her passionate love songs, she sings so beautifully. 

“ Before she had -finished Abner was beside her. She 
turned from the instrument and gave him a look ! He was 
not proof against that. 

" He poured forth in eloquent words all his love, and 
then sank into a chair, saying : 

“ ‘ What have I done ? what said ? Oh ! I am wrong- 
ing Dora terribly ! ’ 99 

“ I advanced then, and said : 

“ 1 Maj T Abner be happy with Lillian ! I am content, 
your happiness is mine. Love me as your little sister .’ 99 

“ And as I was drawing my ring off to place it on Lil- 
lian’s finger, it broke , — just as it left my finger. It was 
very strange. The ring is very heavy, but it was near the 
setting of the stone that it broke. 

" Lillian felt badly about the unpleasant accident, but 
Abner said : 

“ 1 Put it awajr, Dora, I will get another.’ ” 

" The next day, Lillian said : t Dora, if you really loved 
Abner, you could not resign him so calmly. It would kill 
me to give him up ! ’ 99 

“ I replied : 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 


297 


u * "Would you die for him ? When I love, to secure the 
happiness of' the loved one is my first object. And in this 
I am at peace.’ ” 

“ I married in a short time after, and heard no more from 
her.” 

“ Now, Doctor, you must go on and tell me what I am so 
anxious to know.” 

“ Oh, curse him ! but for him she might have been mine. 
Pardon me, madam. I never knew of this. I suspected, 
hut never was certain, of an engagement. 

“ Dora Austin was the only woman I ever loved, save 
my mother. I was much older than she — by twenty years. 
I always feared Abner Grayson was my favored rival. I 
returned from my travels, and found him on the eve of mar- 
riage with Miss Prost. I thought I had mistaken their 
friendship for love. I placed my heart before Dora. 

“ In a true womanly manner, she told me that she had 
loved, and in all probability her heart would never know 
another love. 

il She dismissed her lover, hut secured a true, firm friend. 

“ About the time of the marriage, the yellow-fever was 
making sad havoc in our section. Very few of the country 
folks went near the neighboring villages or towns. Abner, 
so blindly happy and busy in preparation for his approach- 
ing nuptials, would go frequently into the town. 

“ They were married at Dora’s home, and immediately 
started for a Northern tour. 

“ Twenty-four hours had only passed, when the terrible 
news reached us that Abner was ill with the fever, and was 
in a hospital about thirty miles from us. 

“Tn a few hours more, Lillian was back again with Dora 
and Mrs. Austin. 

“ She had fled and left him. 


298 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 


“ Then, for the only time in my life, I saw Dora Austin 
excited — almost maddened. 

“ ‘ You have fled — left him to suffer and, perhaps, die with 
strangers. You, his wife ! Where are your vows, girl ? 
Strewn to the winds. Shame ! Shame ! This is your love ! 
your devotion ! I will teach you woman’s friendship. I 
am going to him — to comfort, nurse, and save him, with 
God’s blessing, and return him to the arms of his devoted 
wife.’ ” 

“ Her father and we all pleaded against this ; but it was 
of no use. She was determined. I tried every way to in- 
duce her to give up the idea, but in vain. I offered to go 
and remain with him. She would not even listen, but pro- 
ceeded to make all arrangements. I knew she would die if 
she did not go. Her mother died of heart-disease. She 
inherited that affection from her. Mr. Austin knew this 
well ; so he yielded. I shall never forget the look of sorrow 
on the old gentleman’s face when she returned for a second 
embrace and, throwing her arms around him, gazed long 
and tenderly in his eyes, and said : 

“ You dear, good father ! It will not be long before we 
meet again, and be happier than now !’ 

“ 1 Come with me,’ she said to me. 

“ We were soon with the suffering man. The attack had 
been violent from the first. He was entirely out of his 
mind — knew no one. He would clasp Dora’s hand and call 
her his darling Lilly, and insist that she should rest and 
not worry about him; she must take care of herself and 
not mar her beauty. Then again he would say, ‘ Send for 
Dora,’ and wunder why she did not come and help his poor 
wife. 

“ And so he continued to take her for his wife — lavish 
on her words of love, and reproaches that Dora would not 
come to him. 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 


299 


a My heart was wrung terribly to see how this mistake 
was striking a death-blow to the devoted girl. Her strength 
was fast giving way. I knew well if she was attacked with 
the fever in her present exhausted state, it must prove 
nearly fatal. 

“ She insisted that I should write her 1 will.’ You know, / 
in her own right, she was immensely wealthy. Her grand- 
father left her — his only heir — his all. She was deeply im- 
pressed with the belief she should die. 

“ ‘ Dear friend, if I live, all right. If I die, not setting 
to right my household, it would be all very wrong/ she said, 
when I tried to chase these gloomy thoughts from her mind. 

She left fifty thousand dollars to Abner’s first child, and 
asked to have him or her — whichever it might be — named 
for her. 

“ Another large sum she left for the provision of her 
slaves, and giving them their freedom. 

“ The remainder she left to erect and support on her es- 
tate an asylum or hospital, and to be under my control and 
direction. 

“ You must visit this institution. We called it, ‘ The 
Austin Hospital.’ 

“ She did not sign her 1 will ’ the day it was written, but 
said : 

“ ‘ In three days I shall be twenty-one. I don’t think I 
shall be ill before that time.’ 

“ It was her birth-day. She was sitting beside the sick 
man. He was sleeping. She turned to me and whispered 
low : 

“ 1 When he awakes, he will be better, and probably know 
us. He will live ; unless a severe shock is given him. Do 
not let him know she fled. If he asks for her, I will answer 
him.’ 

u It was as she said. He opened his eyes ; his mind 
was in the gaze. In a scarcely audible voice he said : 


300 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 


“ 1 Dora ! where is Lilly ? Have I been ill ? ’ 

“ ‘ Lillian is safe now. She was in some danger at one 
time. You will see her soon. You have been very ill. 
Don't talk any more now.' 

“ You will see, my dear madam, how she told the truth in 
her answer, — but in words to comfort and deceive him. 
Again he whispered : ‘ Dear, good Dora ! Heaven bless 
you ! You have suffered for me. You look ill, go lie down.' 
He held out his hand — she clasped it and said : 

“ ‘ Yes, Abner. I will now, that you are better. I do 
not feel very well, I’m tired a little. This is my birth -day, 
Abner. Give your sister a kiss,’ and she bent over and 
pressed her lips to his. She gave him a look long and ear- 
nest, »as she did her father, but of deeper love, and left his 
side. 

“ She never saw him more. 

“She sent for me very soon after, and for two other 
friends — signed, and had her ‘ will ’ witnessed. Then she 
grew rapidly ill. 

“ Constantly during her illness, she would cry ; ‘ Do not 
tell him she fled ! Do not let him know it, please.’ And 
then again : ‘ Do not think it was being with him that made 
me ill ! It is not the fever, doctor, it is my heart. You 
know mamma died so.’ 

“ She became conscious before she passed away, and said 
to me: ‘My best friend! I have loved one better, but 
trusted none as I do you. God bless you ! I will watch 
and pray for your coming to meet me above. Promise me 
that I shall not be disappointed ? ’ 

“ The last words she whispered were : 

“ ‘ Do not worry about me, Abner ! It is my heart, not 
your sickness — not the fever.’ 

“ Truly so it was her heart’s devotion. 

“ I have often thought 1 might have won her if she had 


LOVE UNTO DEATH. 


301 


lived. I am endeavoring, by God’s mercy, to meet her 
again. Sometimes I grow weary for the summons. I care 
not for life. I have lived amongst the most dreaded dis- 
eases, wooing death. At times I feel forgotten, neglected, 
and wonder why I can not go with the many that are called. 
Then I am comforted. I feel her near me, and saying: 
* You must stay — you have your Father’s will to do — his 
work to carry out.’ 

“ ‘ Visit the fatherless, and widows in their affliction. 
Heal the sick. Have pity for the poor. Be merciful after 
thy power. Freely ye have received, freely give.’ 

“ I know she watches over and waits for me, and I am 
happy.” 

“ Tell me, Doctor, of him ? Did he know his wife fled ? ” 

" Most assuredly he did. She, in her miserable excuses, 
told him too truly of the devoted love of this noble woman, 
whose heart he had so trifled with. 

11 They are not happy. They have not deserved to be. 
I know that thoughts of Dora are seldom, if ever absent 
from the mind of either. 

u Lillian is ever thinking of the absent one, who saved 
her husband, by her own sacrifice — and dying tried to shield 
her from his reproach. 

(< Abner is constantly brooding over the young life cut 
short ; of the fond, true heart, with whose last pulsation 
came a thought of peace for him. 

u They have no children. This is a great disappointment 
to both. I think it is well. 

“I should be sorry to see a miniature of Lillian, bearing 
the name of Dora Austin.” 

The doctor finished, and then I thought : 

Truly, there are men, worthy of all a woman’s devotion. 
Had I not one beside me then ? 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 

* “Did you change those buttons on my vest, Dannie ?” 
ashed Edward Barton, after lighting his meerschaum and 
taking up the paper for his evening. 

“ Oh ! Ned, I am so sorry ; but indeed I forgot it. I 
have had so many things extra to do to-day, and Frankie 
has been so fretful. But I'll do it just as soon as I put him 
in his crib, he is almost asleep,” answered his wife, her face 
telling plainly of fatigue and anxious care. 

“ No, never mind, I’ll do it myself — give me a needle ! 
No, never mind, I’ll wait until the next holiday, and then 
I’ll do it. I’m in no very particular hurry. But it does 
seem to me, Fan, if you had a little more system, you would 
not have to work so hard or be so apt to forget. Here you 
have everything before you, and nothing to interrupt. Now 
I never forget my work in the office, and I’m often called off 
a dozen times a day. I should think it the easiest thing in 
the world to get on with your little household affairs,” re- 
turned Ned, knocking the ashes from his pipe out on the 
pretty, bright table cover. 

The patient wife made no reply to these remarks. She 
had heard the same so often before, and tried to explain how 
completely a sick baby set to naught any ideas of system ; 
but husbands cannot understand these things, and it is not 
much use to try to make them. They must have the expe- 
rience. 

Baby Frankie, like most babies, particularly of his sex, 

( 302 ) 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 303 

was a little despot, and seemed already to understand that it 
was man’s prerogative to rule. He had then no idea of 
going to sleep, but worried, kicked, and cried, much to his 
father’s annoyance. 

“ What is the matter with that child ? Why does he not 
go to sleep ? ” 

u Why Ned, he sees you, and he wants to be walked 
about. You have used him to it. I am too tired, please 
you get up and take him ; he is getting very heavy for me. 
You have not spoken a word to him since you came home.” 

“ Well, Fan, I am worried. 1 wish he would go to sleep. 
I want to read you a letter from Aunt Patience. Come, 
give him to me ; Pll have him off to dream land in no 
time.” 

Now Frankie was in his glory while his papa was jump- 
ing and playing with him, and seemed to forget to rub his 
poor little gums, so swollen and sore. And Ned, enjoying 
the many little antics, and infant jargon of his first-born, 
was won for a little while from his unpleasant mood. But 
soon he tired of the fun, and handing the baby back said : 

“ Here, take him ; he won’t go to sleep for me.” And 
Frankie, now farther off than ever from sleep, was put again 
into his mother’s arms. 

At length, after rocking and singing, walking, and pat- 
ting the little form for a long while, the little head dropped 
on her shoulder, and Frankie was asleep. W'eary and al- 
most breathless, Fanny sank into her seat and said : 

“ Now Ned, dear, what is it ? Perhaps I can help you 
in your trouble ! ” 

“ I hope you are not sick, Fannie ! What is the matter? 
You do not look just right.” 

“ Oh no, not sick ; only a little tired. Frankie is a good 
deal heavier than he used to be. I shall soon be rested.” 

“ Oh ! is that all ! I’m glad.of it. It would be very un- 


304 the husband’s mistake. 

fortunate for you to get sick just now. I want you to go see 
auftty for me. I’ll read the letter, then explain. 

“Dear Nephew. — Just as soon as you receive this I 
want you to get a day’s leave from your office and come to 
see me. As life is very uncertain, and delays are danger- 
ous, I think every sensible person ought to set their affairs 
all right. There are several letters I want written, and my 
business needs a general fixing up. But, most particular^, 
I want to have you come and go with me to put Tom Daw- 
son out from off the lower farm. I am determined to make 
him give up possession immediately. He has taken no no- 
tice of the money letter you wrote him. I do not wish to 
go to law with him, for ‘ them that has the least to do with 
law are the best off’ Be sure you comtf Thursday. I will 
have a dinner you like. Don't disappoint me. 

“ Your loving aunt, 

“Patience Ketchum.” 

“There now! Isn’t that provoking? I. would sooner 
give fifty dollars (if I had it) than go — yet I dare not make 
the old lady angry. You see Fan., I never sent my letter 
to Tom. Poor fellow, he has had so much to pull him back 
this season, I was not going to worry him. He told me his 
own house would be ready for him in the spring, and then 
he would go. But Aunt Patience thinks she can get more 
rent for it; so will not hear of his remaining. Now if I 
go, she will carry me there to get him out. Then there, I 
will be in a petty scrape. Was there ever a man so beset 
with other people’s trouble, as I ? 

“You go, Fannie dear, and tell that penurious, hard- 
hearted old — oh ! excuse me — that economical, praiseworthy^ 
aged relative of mine, that we are dreadfully busy at the 
office ; but just as soon as I can get a day (for which I’ll 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 


305 


not ask in a hurry) I’ll come. You can write her letters, 
eat her nice dinners, and I’ll stay home, mind the house 
and take care of Frankie.” 

“ But Ned — 

“ Wait a moment, Fan. If you will smooth things 
up for her, and not let her think hard of me. I’ll buy you 
a sewing machine before the month’s out.” 

“ Of course I’ll go, Ned, if you wish, and do the best I 
can for aunty and you too. Never mind about the sew- 
ing machine, we cannot afford that just yet. You know I 
sent the cook away because I want to economise. I can 
go very well to-morrow. I did up all the work to-day. 
You will have but little to do, and Dick can attend to al- 
most everything, if you make him understand just what 
you want. He is a bright little darkey, and will amuse 
Frankie while you read. What time do the cars leave ? ” 

“ Not until fifteen minutes of eight. You will leave at 
half-past seven.” 

“ Come, Ned, hurry up and dress. Breakfast is ready, 
and I have not a moment to lose. I washed and dressed 
Frankie and he is asleep again, and will remain so for an 
hour or two, if you will keep the room quiet. Now listen ! 
Let me tell you just what to do, and how to get on. I have 
fixed ham, pie, cake, jelly, and pickles on the side-board 
ready for j t ou, and placed napkins and so on in case 
any one should drop in, and jmu should want to give them 
lunch. Now, after you have done your breakfast, please 
take out the rolls I’ve just put in the oven, and then put in 
the loaf of bread ; it is not quite light enough now. You 
can remember that, can’t you, my dear ? ” 

“ Mrs. Barton ; please to call to mind, that I am a man, 
not a child, and think I have mind and memory enough to 
6erve me so far as the baking of a loaf of bread.” • 

19 


806 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 


" Now, Ned, don’t get cross ; make Dick wash up the 
breakfast things, keep up the two fires, sweep up the kitchen, 
and that is all. I will run up stairs and make the bed. 
Good-bye, Ned, do be careful of the baby, and mind, don’t 
forget the bread,” and she tripped off, then darting back, 
said : 

“ Oh, Ned, I forgot to tell you, I put out some tea in a 
cup, and some coffee in another ; so you can make which you 
choose. Keep some hot for me. Good-bye.” 

Frankie was sleeping sweetly, when Edwin Barton re- 
turned to his room, after finishing his breakfast and provid- 
ing for Dick, with the direction to clear up, as Mrs. Barton 
said. 

Looking around the room, he spied a picture that was not 
in the exact position, and providing himself with a hammer, 
he withdrew the hook, selected the proper place to ha*g it, 
and went to work. 

This unusual noise awoke Frankie, who very soon set forth 
a loud wail of fright and complaint. In vain the father tried 
to soothe the little one ; at length, Dick’s services were called 
into play. 

“ ’Deed, Mister Barton, I ’spects you make racket and 
scared him. I’se ain’t dun de dishes yit,” answered Dick. 

“ Never mind, sir. I suppose there are more clean dishes 
if they are wanted. You come here and try to quiet the 
baby.” 

But Frankie would scream, in spite of all Dick’s endeav- 
ors. At last he struck a bright idea. 

“ If you let me go in next door and git Harry Blame 
(Blain) to cum in wid his’n playthings, dat will muse 
him.” 

So little Harry came, and Frankie yielded to his influ- 
ence and became "quite pleasant. 

Ned read his paper, lighted his meerschaum, and finally 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 


307 


found a pair of scissors and began his long-threatened piece 
of work, (in truth, amusement), namely, cutting and twist- 
ing lamplighters. The waste pieces of paper he threw on 
the carpet, which were directly caught up by the little ones, 
and contributed much to their amusement, and future dis- 
comfort, both to Frankie and his father. But I must not 
anticipate. 

Noon came, and Harry bade adieu, and in a short time 
the baby began again to grow quite restless, and continued 
to grow worse. 

Ned took him up, and to do him justice, I must say en- 
deavored in every way to amuse him. 

“ Dick, what is the matter with him now ? Is he hun- 
gry ? ” 

“No, Meed, sir. Fse fed him. ’Spect he misses his 
mammy. ’Spect may be how you don’t hole him easy.” 

So it seemed, for as the father pressed the little one in 
his arms, louder grew his screams. 

So passed the time, with little intermission, until late in 
the afternoon. 

" I mus’ go to de door, sir, — the bell dun rung,” said 
Dick. 

“ Don’t you let any one in. I am out, you hear, boy ? ” 

In a few moments Dick called up : 

u Gemman say how you will see him, an’ I tole him how 
you say you was out too ■” 

“ Ned, it is only I. Let me come up ? ” 

u Tom Merry man ! Oh, all right ! Gome up, perhaps 
you can help me here. Do you know anything about baby- 
tending ? This youngster has a spell of — well, I do not 
know what ! ” 

And Ned proceeded to explain how it was he was home 
in Fannie’s place. 

“ Yes, I can help you, I think. Bless you, boy, it is 


308 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 


‘wind,’ that is the matter with him. I know all about it. 
When sister Jennie’s baby cries, that is what they all say 
is the matter, and of course it is so with yours. They give 
it a little drop or so of gin, and let me see, how old is your 
baby — yes, fifteen months. Well, fifteen drops of paregoric, 
that is it.” 

“You are sure, Tom, that it will not hurt him?” asked 
the anxious young father." 

“ I know it will not.” 

So it was duly administered, and it soon proved a happy 
idea, for Frankie’s little eyelids grew heavy, and before 
many minutes passed he was sound asleep. 

“ Tom, you are the smartest fellow I know ! Come now 
— let us go down and get something to eat. I am almost 
famished. Luckily, Fannie fixed everything for lunch, 
except coffee, and I can make that. I understand it, much 
better than tending babies.” 

“ Hal-loo ! What the thunder is this ? Look, Tom ! ” 

Tom went to inspect. 

“ It looks like batter, or dough, making an exit from the 
pan ” 

Ned’s face wore a most comical expression as he answered. 

“ You have hit it, Tom, sure ! It’s all dough now ! 
Fannie left that loaf for me to bake. What can I do with 
it ? Whew ! How sour it smells. Can you help me out 
here, Tom ? ” 

“ Yes — I guess so. Help you up with it from the floor 
and out with it, to the slop-pail. That is the way our cook 
does when she burns the bread up, and I think that might 
answer for this.” 

At the concluding part of this speech Ned sprang to the 
stove, pulled open the oven door, and drew out the pan of 
rolls, now burnt to coal. 

“ I forgot all about them, I had so much to do. A fellow 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 309 

cannot remember every thing. I wish that scamp Dick 
had forgotten to fill up this stove with coal ; then they 
would not have been quite so black. Any idea what to do 
here , Tom ? ” 

“ Oh, certainly. Let them keep company with the loaf.” 

“ All right. I’ll make the coffee now* and then we be 
ready for our lunch. There are a few rolls left from break- 
fast.” 

Tom carried out his plan relative to the lost bread, and 
the coffee being ready, they proceeded to the dining-room, 
where Ned put out the various good things. 

“ I say, Tom, — what will we say became of the bread ? ” 

“ Never mind, old fellow ; I’ll stay and help you out.” 

“ Tom, you are the only comfort I’ve had this day. What 
is the matter now ? What are you making p, face at ? ” 

“ Do you call this coffee ! ” 

Ned tasted. 

“ Something is wrong here, certainly. Well, never mind, 
we will drink milk. I say, Tom,” said his friend, after 
looking very serious for a few moments, “ you know what I 
think?” 

“ I can guess — namely, housekeeping is not your voca- 
tion.” 

“ Well, yes — but more than that.” 

u That woman is an institution ? ” 

“ Yes, that is it. A divine institution. I never knew it 
before. This day’s experience has forced the knowledge on 
me. I appreciate the whole sex — my wife in particular. If 
to-day , when almost every thing was done for me, I could 
not remember, and get along, how must it have been yester- 
day with her. Sweeping, dusting, brewing, baking, mend- 
ing, making, and more than any ) and most of all, tending 
baby at the beginning, ending, and between every other 
duty. Why man ! we should go mad, with so much care. 
Oh, woman ! From this hour I am thy devoted admirer.” 


310 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 


“ You are right, Ned. I appreciate them too ; particu- 
larly after eating such cake and pie as this. I’ll give up 
the idea of being a bachelor,” said the merry man. 

“ Bless me ! It is half-past six o’clock. Fannie will be 
here very soon. I wish those dishes had been washed up ; 
then every thing would have seemed right anyhow.” 

“ We can do them in no time,” said Tom. 

“Too late — here she is,” answered Ned. And Fannie 
came in ; looking as bright and happy as possible. 

“ Why, how well you look. I was fearful you would be 
tired, Fannie ! Sit down, and let ine remove your wrap- 
pings.” 

“ Oh, no — not a bit tired. I am glad to see you, Mr. 
Merryman. You have kept Ned from being lonesome, I 
know. I have had a very pleasant day. How is Frankie ? ” 
returned the little wife. 

“ I wish 1 had,” thought Ned — but answered : “ I’m very 
glad to hear it. Frankie is sleeping nicely.” 

“ Give me a cup of tea, please, and a roll. The long ride 
has given me an appetite.” 

A look of consternation, mingled with an appealing one, 
was cast towards Tom, by the anxious husband. He poured 
out a cup, still quite hot, and passed it over. 

Fannie sweetened and tasted. Puckered up her mouth, 
tasted again. Her eyes were dancing, her mouth drawn 
down, every feature expressing suppressed mirth. 

“ Tea or coffee ? Did you say, Ned ? ” she quietly asked. 

“I am really sorry, Fannie. But I must have put both 
in, I guess. I was very much worried about that time.” 

“Never mind, I’ll make a cup in a few minutes,” an- 
swered his wife. And off she flew to the kitchen to meet 
the breakfast things, just as she had left them. She soon 
returned with her tea; sat down and asked: 

“ Where are the fresh rolls, Ned ? I’d like one of your 
baking.” 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 311 

“Now Mrs. Barton, I am very much afraid you will think 
we were gormandizers, hut those rolls were so very brown , 
and inviting, that we made away with all of them/ said the 
ever ready Tom. 

“Oh ] I am very glad you liked them. I would just as 
soon have the loaf— a piece, if you please, Ned ? ” 

Another appealing glance towards his friend, who came 
to his assistance. 

“ Beally, I do not know what you will think — but my 
dear madam, we were both of us pretty nearly famished and 
seeing the loaf which was so very light and tempting, why 
— we paid our respects to that first,” said Tom, very 
gravely. 

“ Indeed, I am delighted you enjoyed both-,” said Fannie 
— but at the same time, thinking there was some mystery 
concerning it. 

“ I will go up and see Frankie, relieve Dick, and then 
come down and tell you all about my visit,” said Fannie. 

She was gone about a half hour, during which time the 
two friends were congratulating themselves on their happy 
exit from their embarrassing situation. 

Fannie returned, looking merrier than ever, and said : 

“ Ned, you have had a very trying day with the baby — 
but, poor little dear, no wonder he fretted. Dick has told 
me all about it. Your prescription did very well to soothe 
him to sleep, Mr. Merryman. But you did not get at the 
right cause of the trouble. Although I’ve no doubt he 
proved to you there was wind enough — but in his lungs 
only. Just think, I found the bosom of his dress stuffed 
quite full of scraps of stiff paper, which had irritated his 
skin considerably. That- was the reason he cried so, when 
you pressed him to you. The sharp edges of the paper hurt 
him, but it is nothing serious.” 

« It was that little scamp, Harry Blame (as Dick calls 


812 the husband’s mistake. 

him.) Of course I could not have my eyes on him and my 
work too/’ said Ned, in a rather apologetic manner. 

“ I know it, dear. Now I will tell you about my trip. 
Aunty was very much disappointed at not seeing } T ou — ” 

“ I hope you made it all right, Fan. What did you tell 
her?” 

“ I did — -but I told her the truth, the whole truth, and 
nothing but the truth,” answered his wife. 

“ No — you did not dare to ! Told her I was home ?” 

“Yes. Now listen, my husband, and please not to say 
another word until I get through. I knew aunt better than 
you. I was straightforward with her. I began by telling 
her you sent me, because you did not wish to hurt her in any 
■way. I told her of the hard trial this winter had been for 
the poor — that every one felt it ; then of the trouble in 
Tom Dawson’s family — how much sickness, and so on ; and 
then I told her you had never sent those letters to him. In 
short, I fixed everything all right — wrote her letters, fixed 
up her affairs generally, and most of all, found the key to 
her heart. And only think, went over with her to see Tom, 
and she was as kind as could be ! She told him to take his 
own time to pay her, and stay as long as he wished. And 
now, to finish up, 1 told her what you had promised me if I 
did all right ” 

“ Why, Fannie, I ” 

“ Not a word yet. See here ! She gave me this ! — one 
hundred dollars— -to buy the machine, saying she would have 
that pleasure herself, she was so thankful I had helped her 
to find her better feelings, which she had hid away so long.” 

“ Fannie, you are the dearest, wisest, best wife in the 
world ! How did you manage the old lady ?” 

“ Ned, dear, as every true woman likes to be managed by 
her friends, relatives, more than all, her husband. Deal 
with us gently, patiently, lovingly, candidly and truthfully, 


THE HUSBAND’S MISTAKE. 


813 


without reserve or concealment, and you have found the key 
to unlock our hearts : secure and keep the real treasure 
within.” 

" Fannie, I believe that is the right policy for us, truly; 
and I have come to the conclusion that a woman has the 
right , and is worthy , to fill the highest positions,” said Ned, 
warmly. 

u Well, dear, I am very glad you think so; and I think 
my sisterhood generally would like very much the privilege 
of trying the experiment ; and, at no very distant time, I 
think it will be granted us. From our husbands, however, 
now , we wish and claim, to be loved, respected and appre- 
ciated” 

The inauspicious day ended so happily to the delighted 
man that he humorously told the story of the rolls and loaf, 
that evening, to his wife ; and to his friends many an eve- 
ning after. 


AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


One not easily jealous, but being wrought, 

Perplexed in the extreme.— Shakespeare. 

As happy and loving a little wife as ever blessed the 
heart and home of man was Ruth Spencer. A gentle, 
brown-eyed little dove, who believed all the world as good 
and as kind as herself. 

She had been married five yeajps, and during that time 
hardly a shadow of care or trouble had entered her little 
home, except what had been brouglit by her husband’s old 
aunt Prudence, a maiden lady, very poor and terribly proud, 
who lived with them. 

One little cherub of a boy was the crowning blessing of 
her life. She would often say she was the happiest woman 
in the world, with the best husband and sweetest baby. 

In the next house lived a very pretty girl to whom Aunt 
Prudence took a manifest dislike ; and indeed she was the 
cause of many a heart ache to our little Ruth. 

Rumor said Lilly Hanson was engaged to a man old 
enough to be her grandfather — an arrangement of the old 
folks. Lilly did not love any one particularly, and as the 
old Colonel was immensely wealthy, she did not object to 
their arrangement. 

A great intimacy sprung up between this young girl and 
Ruth, and when the latter’s brother, a Lieutenant Seaton, 
came to make his sister a visit on his return from sea, 

( 314 ) 


AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO. 


315 


scarcely a day passed without some party of pleasure, or 
sight-seeing expedition, found them together. 

It was soon very evident that Lilly’s bright eyes had 
made a decided impression on the young officer. 

In a confidential talk with his sister, he told her as much, 
but concluded by saying : 

“ But it is a hopeless case. She is truly betrothed to 
that ‘ Old Colonel.’ It is too bad ! he is old enough to be 
Iter grandfather ; but he is a noble old chap, and I cannot 
help liking him.” 

“ Would he not release her, think you, if she loved some 
one else better ? ” suggested his sister. 

" No, I think not. It see*ms her father is under some 
very great obligation to him, and I am by no means sure 
that she does love any one better than her old Colonel.” 

So the visit was concluded, and young Seaton bade adieu 
without giving his sister any hope that Lilly looked on him 
with any feelings other than simply friendship. 

But to Ruth’s amazement, very soon her husband began . 
to grow very fond of Lilly’s company. If they were going 
to any place of amusement, he would be almost sure to 
say: 

u You had better ask Lilly to go. Her old lover does not 
take her out much, and she will not go with young gentle- 
men.” 

Aunt Prudence did not hesitate to express herself very 
freely. On one occasion she said : 

“ Indeed, Kuth, child, I do not know what you are think- 
ing about, not to see that girl is trying her best to bewitch 
your husband. It’s plain as day to them as are not blind, 
or don’t want to see. And I think she is as artful a piece 
as I ever came across, having the impudence to tell you 
how good your husband is, and what a splendid fellow — 
humph, as if you didn’t know it. I’d let them know my 
eyes were open. I’d not be treated so.” 


316 AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO. 

“Why, Aunty? treated how? George is devoted to 
me, and just as attentive as he ever was. George is sorry 
for her, and she makes so much of him, indeed of both of 
us, that of course he cannot help being kind to her. Noth- 
ing else ; but I do think he is a little too fond of her,” 
murmured Ruth. 

“ Is Mr. Spencer in ? Sister wants to see him, and says 
please will he stop at our door a moment before he goes to 
his store,” exclaimed little Willie Hanson, running into 
Ruth’s sitting-room. 

This put a stop to Aunt Prudence’s lecture for that 
time. Indeed, Ruth was very glad to have a stop put to 
it. She had become sore on the subject. Poor little thing, 
she tried hard not to see or think anything wrong, but her 
pretty face had a decidedly careworn look. 

A few days after this conversation, Lilly herself came 
bounding into the room and said : 

“Mrs. Spencer, isn’t it most time your husband was 
home ? I want to see him so much ; I watched for him 
this morning, he must have passed before I was at the win- 
dow — ” and thenj as if her speech needed an apology, she 
said : 

“ I want to see if he has a letter for me, he promised to 
call at the office.” 

There was a step in the hall, and aw T ay she flew to meet 
him, and had a low talk of a few moments before George 
came into the room, and then passed out, but not before 
Ruth heard her say, “ Thank you, I’ll have it ready and 
watch for }*ou.” 

Very quiet was the poor grieved little wife. 

All that George could do to be pleasant, did not make 
the dinner other than a very dismal meal ; and, when tak- 
ing his leave, he went as usual to kiss her, she did not re- 
turn it, but ran up stairs to hide her tears from Aunt Pru- 
dence. 


AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO. 


317 


That evening, when her husband came home, she did not 
try to wear a happy face, she was miserable, and was not 
going to try to hide it any longer. 

“ Ruth, darling, what is the matter? What ails you? 
I’ve never, in the five years of our married life, seen your 
sweet face wear a frown or any expression but love and 
happiness, until within the last few days. Tell your hus- 
band what troubles you,” he said, taking her in his arms. 

She burst into tears, and told him all ; and what Aunt 
Prudence thought and said. 

“ Little wife, do not let your pure heart be troubled by 
what Aunt Prudence says, and above all do not see your 
friend’s actions with her eyes. Trust your husband, and be 
very sure that he loves his little Ruth more and more every 
day, and thanks God for giving him such a blessing,” he 
said, in such a solemn, truthful manner, that she was quite 
satisfied for some time afterwards, notwithstanding that 
Aunt Prudence, every day or so, would find something to 
shock her ideas of “ common decency ” as she termed it. 

“ Papa is coming ! Papa is coming ! ” said baby George, 
running up to his mother. 

u He tops to see Lilly, papa dive Lilly likeness.” 

" Do you understand, Ruth, what the child is saying? 
Well, things are coming to a pretty pass, that a man stops 
to see young girls, and give them his likeness, keeping his 
poor wife home waiting dinner; ’twasn’t so in my day, but 
of course, it is all right, simply friendship and pity.” 

“ Aunt Prudence, please do not talk so. I have full con- 
fidence in my husband ; and cannot you throw the mantle 
of charity over Lilly’s actions ? ” 

“ Humph, I don’t know what style of mantle charity 
wears ; but it will take a monstrous large and long one, 
different from the present fashion, to cover up and hide that 
girl’s bold and wicked ways,” broke forth the old lady. 


318 


AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO, 


So days passed into weeks and there grew to be a cool- 
ness between Ruth and Lilty, the latter trying her best to 
warm the chilled heart of her former friend ; and when she 
would throw off the feeling of suspicion, and be a little 
cheerful and easy, Aunt Prudence would suggest some new 
outrage to society in general, and domestic peace in partic- 
ular. 

At last it came just as she knew it would be, just as she 
had predicted. 

One day a note from George was brought by the porter 
from the store, saying “ that his wife must not be uneasy 
or worried, he was called away very unexpectedly, and had 
not time to come home to say good-bye, as he wanted to 
catch the four o’clock train. He would be home' the next 
afternoon. 

This explanation was satisfactory to Ruth, not so to Aunt 
Prudence. 

“ Humph ! may be so ! I hope it will prove true. I be- 
lieve that girl is at the foot of it.” 

Ruth had just put her baby to sleep, and was sitting by 
his crib, when a loud ring was heard at the hall door ; in a 
few moments more Mrs. Hanson rushed wildly into the 
room, crying out : 

“ Where is Lilly ? is she here ? When did you see her 
last?” 

Ruth was too terrified to speak. 

“ Where is your husband,” demanded the excited 
mother. 

Poor child ! all was plain now — George gone, Lilly gone. 

“ I’ve not seen Lilly to-day; my husband left town this 
afternoon,” she gasped forth. 

A new actor now appeared in the scene — Aunt Prudence. 

“Just what I’ve been expecting to hear for a month 
past. Where have your eyes been, madam, that you have 


AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO. 


819 


not seen your Lilly’s designs on that poor unsuspecting 
child’s husband ? I’ve been seeing it all and telling her ; 
but she is so good and pure in herself, she could not think 
of a woman’s being anything else. Hold up your head, 
my dear — you have nothing to be ashamed of. There is no 
disgrace at your door. If he is gone, I’d feel it — a good 
riddance of bad baggage.” 

“ Oh, oh, aunty ! you don’t know — you have never been 
a wife. I was so happy before we got rich and came here. 
Oh, oh ! ” sobbed the poor wife. 

The almost crazed mother ran from the room, glad to get 
out of the way of the enraged spinster. 

Kuth spent the night in walking the floor, crying. At 
last, near morning, she grew rather more calm. She had 
decided what to do. 

Packing up a trunk with things she needed most for her- 
self and little one, she went, at early dawn, to Aunt Pru- 
dence’s room, knocked, and said : 

“ I am going home to my parents. I shall leave this 
morning at eight o’clock. I cannot stay here — I should die. 
You had better remain until you hear from him; and, 
please, have my things— my wardrobe — sent to me. You 
will know how to settle up better than I. I must go to my 
mother.” 

“ Well, my poor dove, I will do the best I can, and will 
come to see you when I get through.” 

In a few hours, the cars were bearing her rapidly away 
from her husband’s home. 

“ Hoity-toity ! what is this ? — a visit from my little 
Euthy. Why did you not let us know you were coming, 
that some one might have met you?” inquired old Mr. 
Seaton. 

After much trouble, he was able to make out, through 


820 


AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO. 


the sobs and broken exclamations of mortification and grief, 
just how matters stood. 

“ Well, well, yesterday your brother took it into his head 
to clear out from us and get married, without a word ; and 
to-da3 r , our daughter takes it into her head to come back 
to her home, tired of matrimony.” 

“ Come, child, stop crying ; there must be some mistake 
— George seemed to be a very devoted husband.” 

“ Oh, so he was, until (as Aunt Prudence says) that girl 
bewitched him.” 

“ Humph ! ah, I should not wonder if that misnamed 
damsel had not ‘ lighted and been blowing the fire all the 
time,’ — in a word, been the cause of this trouble.” 

“ Oh no, father dear, it was plain enough for every one 
to see, and they both left in the same train. O, I shall die 
— I know I shall.” 

Ruth was carried off, put to bed, and given a composing 
draught by her mother. 

The next morning she was calmer, and her father man- 
aged to get a clearer statement of the affair. 

“Now tell me the name of the young person you say he 
has gone with.” 

“ Lilly Hanson,” whispered Ruth. 

“Lilly ? Why, bless my soul, the Lillies have grown to 
be very forward flowers ! That is the name of the girl Jo. 
has gone off with — Lilly somebody — he did not say who; 
only we must welcome his Lilly — and here they are now ! ” 

A carriage drove up to the door; and Jo. jumped out and 
led in a lady, saying : 

“ Here, father, — mother, — is your new daughter! ” 

The lady raised her veil, and disclosed the bright, pretty 
face of Lilly Hanson. 

“ Why, Ruth, you here ? George just left us yesterday 
afternoon.” 


AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO. 321 

But Buth was speechless, gazing with amazement on the 
face of her new sister. 

The old gentleman seemed to he the clearest-headed one 
of the group, and said: 

“ Oh, I see — this is the Lilly ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! they did 
not let you into the secret.” 

By this time, Lilly’s arms were around Buth — she exclaim- 
ing : 

“ Do you forgive me, sister ? I fear I’ve caused you 
much suffering; but it was all Joe’s fault. He said if I 
made you the confidant, that Aunt Prudence would draw it 
all out of you, and ma would surely know*it; and as you 
would tell your husband, we had better do that ourselves, 
and have but one in the secret. He brought me all Joe’s 
letters and sent mine, and finally went over to Baltimore, 
and having seen me duly married, hastened back to you. 
Oh, how disappointed he will be not to find you. Do you 
forgive me?” 

“Forgive you? Will George ever forgive me for not 
having confidence in him ? He told me to trust him. Oh ! 
•indeed George will never forgive me,” cried the poor child. 

“ Yes he will,” and turning round she was clasped in her 
husband’s arms. 

“ Indeed, little wife, you have been sorely tried, but in 
future you will not borrow Aunt Prudence’s eyes, I hope. 
However, it’s all right now.” 

“ 1 All’s well that ends well,’ ” said old Mr. Seaton. 

“This ends very well,” said George. 

“ I’ve good news for you, Lilly. I went in and gave your 
marriage certificate to your mother, and she wa‘s so relieved 
that the silly report of Auntie’s was not true, she almost 
hugged me. And now for the grand finale. Your old Col- 
onel says Joe must bring you home. That he never had the 
slightest idea of marrying you himself. That he only want- 
20 


322 


AUNT PRUDENCE SAID SO. 


ed to keep off the young scamps until you were sought by 
some fellow. He had picked out Joe for the lucky chap? 
but you would not let him have the pleasure of giving you 
away. He says all he has is yours, with his best regards, 
and hearty thanks to Joe for relieving him — for he is per- 
fectly devoted to bachelor life.” 


if. 

THE THREE BELLES. 


DY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


Three ladies on the summit of your mind 
Their station tako to hold discourse of love: 

Genius and courtesy adorn the one, 

Beauty and graceful elegance the other; 

The third hath lands, and slaves to do her honor.— D ante. 


“ What a restless, uneasy little body our Doctor’s wife is, 
Grandma! Was she always thus ? Or is it the reverse of 
fortune that has affected her mind and manner ? I often 
wonder how such an elegant man could have chosen one so 
seemingly inferior to himself in all mental attainments. 
She is rather handsome, certainly, and possibly in her 
youth may have been beautiful enough to win the Doc- 
tor’s heart ; but not to hold it, I fancy. She is not happy. 
One thing I particularly notice, that whenever she speaks 
she glances anxiously at her husband, as if she was fearful 
of saying something to displease him. You knew her be- 
fore her marriage, did you not ? Tell me of her youthful 
days, and his,” asked little Katie May. 

“ Why, Katie, what an observant little body you are ! 
And you are very nearly right in your ideas of poor Mrs. 
Daw. Yes, I knew them both, and their parents before 
them. I will tell you what it was that won the Doctor’s 
heart, and all about it. 

“ In this county, within a distance of not more than ten 
miles, lived three young girls, all possessing considerable 
beauty, and, strange to say, all bearing the same given name 
of Kebecca. There were but few young men in the neigh- 

( 323 ) 


324 THE THREE BELLES. 

borhood, and those here were very commonplace, either in 
manner, appearance, or ability, excepting one, young Doc- 
tor Harry Daw. Handsome, talented, and very agreeable, 
he made sad havoc with the hearts of all the girls, particu- 
larly with the three Rebeccas. 

“ I remember well being present on one occasion and 
hearing a conversation between the Doctor and his mother 
— my dearest friend — on this subject. 

“ The Doctor was sitting deep in thought that day, when 
his mother asked : 

“ ‘ What is it, Harry, that you are puzzling your brain 
over? A new medical theory ? an obstinate case of fever? 
or the most becoming color for a neck-tie ? ’ she added, 
laughingly. 

“‘Neither, mother dear. Something of deeper impor- 
tance than all your surmises — something more for the 
heart’s than the brain’s decision. I will tell you — first, 
however, stipulating that our friend Mrs. May shall either 
close her ears here , or her lips for ever hereafter , and giv- 
ing me her promise to think as charitably as possible of 
my seeming high opinion of my own merit. Will you 
agree to my terms ? ’ he asked, bowing gracefully before 
me. 

“I promised, and have strictly kept it up to this time. 
But now it can do no harm, after all these years have passed 
by, to relate it to you. 

‘•'‘Mother,’ he said, ‘these three Rebeccas — I am per- 
fectly bewildered by them : to which shall I yield ? Sweet, 
gentle, loving little Rebecca Berry — beautiful as a poet’s 
dream, Nature’s masterpiece, I heard her often called — is 
stealing deeper and deeper into my heart. It was with the 
greatest difficulty last night that I could restrain myself 
from placing my heart and hand before her, and asking her 
to bless me with her love. Yes, yes, I know she will prove 


THE THREE BELLES. 


325 


a great blessing to whoever may win her. But, mother, 
she has neither social position nor wealth. I, too, being 
poor, would not be wise to make her mine ; we both should 
do better. 

“‘Next comes pretty, brilliant, gifted Rebecca Green- 
ough. How she charms me with her constant flow of beau- 
tiful language, her never-failing wit ! How proud I should 
be with her presiding over my home. She would grace the 
highest position. I feel sure that great fame will yet be 
hers. The wealth of her mind will be known far and wide. 
But she is too poor in worldly goods. Oh, if I only had 
wealth ! Well, well, it would not be quite so hard to de- 
cide. 

u 1 Last, but by no means the least in attractions, is Re- 
becca Eaton — pretty, amiable, of one of the oldest and 
proudest families of our State, and undoubtedly the great- 
est heiress ! Think of her broad lands, numberless slaves, 
and countless hoard of gold ! Does not all these gifts of 
fortune insure happiness for its possessor ? One thing 
weighs only against her. She has not had the advantages 
of education that her position and wealth demand ; or if 
she has had, she has not made proper use of them. She 
has not the attainments of an ordinary girl of twelve years 
but she is quite young enough yet to improve herself. 
Now, mother dear, if I could be so fortunate as to win 
either, with which should I most likely secure peace and 
happiness ? ’ 

“ 1 Oh, Harry, my boy, you are weighing between love, 
pride, and wealth ; and I greatly fear the claims of the 
heart’s purest affections will be found the lightest in the 
balance. Yes, jmu have said truly, it is for the heart’s — 
yours only — decision. Consider well ; and if you have the 
knowledge of having gained a dearer position than that of 
friend in the heart of either of these young girls, let that 


326 THE THREE BELLES. 

knowledge weigh heavy in the favor of that one, whichever 
she may be/ answered his mother. 

“ I hade them adieu and left, soon after ; feeling .quite 
sure in my own mind that Harry Daw would have no diffi- 
culty in winning either of the three he wished, all loving 
sufficiently to risk their happiness in his keeping. My own 
heart hoped little Rebecca Berry might be the favored one, 
for I thought she loved him best, and the loss of his love 
would be harder for her gentle heart to bear. 

“ A few weeks after this, his decision was known. An 
engagement between the Doctor and the wealthy Rebecca 
Eaton was proclaimed. Yes, gold weighed the heaviest, 
and won the Doctor’s hand ; I wish I could add, his heart. 

“ Report said that, for a few hours only after this, Re- 
becca Greenough hid herself away, for a severe struggle 
with her loving, womanly heart. But bravely she con- 
quered, and bore her disappointment ; coming forth as calm 
as ever — more charming, if possible. She made a visit to 
Rebecca Berry, it was said, to sympathize with and comfort 
her, and, with her arms around her friend, she whispered 
that she too had loved young Doctor Daw, saying : 

“ ‘ Cheer up, little one ! for if there is any truth in the 
saying, “ Misery loves company,” j^ou have that consola- 
tion. Harry Daw suffers with you. You feel, and I know, 
that you alone he loves. He has bartered his heart’s pur- 
est impulses for gold, and such a man is not worthy of our 
love. We will show him and the world that there are 
women whose hearts will not break, or their , owners fade 
away and die, all for the loss of a man’s love.’ 

“ There began then, and continued until they left this 
neighborhood, a great intimacy between these two. I was 
present at the wedding, and saw the many friends come for- 
ward to congratulate the wedded pair. Among them was 


THE THREE BELLES. 327 

Rebecca Greenough. Smiling and graceful she tfame, and 
with her clear bright eye gazing calmly in his, she offered 
her wishes for his happiness. I think, after that day, the 
Doctor’s mind was more than doubtful if he had ever been 
regarded with a deeper feeling than friendship by her. 

“ Close following her was little Rebecca Berry. Nat- 
urally timid and retiring, her manner on that occasion did 
not excite comment or attention ; but ‘ How beautiful ! ’ 
‘How exquisitely lovely!’ were the numerous exclama- 
tions. Silently and with drooping eyelids she stood before 
him, and placing for a moment her cold fingers in his, she 
passed on. Oh ! I know there was a severe pang in the 
heart then, which, had it yielded to its own pleadings before 
it was too late, had clasped for ever in his own the little 
trembling hand he had just relinquished. 

“ Frequently, at the wedding parties, I have seen the 
Doctor held spell-bound, entranced by Rebecca Greenough’s 
brilliant conversation. Yes, for hours I’ve watched him 
lingering beside her. Once I remember being very near, 
when she stopped suddenly in something she was saying, 
and waving her fan gracefully in the direction of the young 
bride, said, ‘ Doctor, Mrs. Daw is alone. Your presence is 
due there.’ 

“ From the servants came reports of how diligently the 
young wife betook herself to studying her grammar and 
dictionary ; of long days spent in trying to improve herself, 
to please her husband. 

“ One day, about a year after their marriage, my mother 
gave a dinner party. They were present. I was seated 
just opposite them at the table. Some one of the guests 
addressing Mrs. Daw, she replied with some pleasant little 
remark, but the words were not well chosen, or some one of 
them miscalled, I forget just which, but it fell unpleasantly 


328 


THE THREE BELLES. 


on her husband’s keen ear. A flush of mortification 
mounted his handsome brow, and a little while after, when 
we were leaving the table, I heard him whisper the harsh* 
unkind words, ‘ For Heaven’s sake, talk as little as possible, 
and save me such public mortification.’ 

“ So you see, Katie, you were quite correct in your sur- 
mises. Her anxious looks are caused by the fear of dis- 
pleasing or mortifying her husband. 

“ A few months after this, there came into the neighbor- 
hood, to drink of our 1 health-giving waters,’ a young man, 
handsome and very wealthy. He met the beautiful Re- 
becca Berry ; saw how very different she was from the but- 
terflies of art and fashion that he was accustomed to meet 
in his city home, and became very much in love with her, 
prolonging his stay among us until he won and carried her 
away with him. We have constantly heard of her occupy- 
ing a high position among the elite of Hew York ; and 
now, although twenty years have gone by, ’tis said she is 
still one of the most beautiful women of the time. 

“ Rebecca Greenough left her home, to visit her relatives 
in a far Western city. There her talents were soon well 
known and appreciated. She became a contributor to a 
widely circulated literary paper, her productions meeting 
every where the highest favor ; her society universally 
sought ; and in the most refined and brilliant circles she 
was the 1 bright particular star.’ About a year after she 
left us, she gave her hand to a rising young lawyer : his 
own ability, accompanied by the great popularity of his 
wife, bringing him before the people ; occupying, one after 
another, positions of honor and importance, until now he 
comes as the Senator from . 

“ So you see, Katie, the loss of Doctor Daw’s love proved, 
in the end, a great gain for the two girls. Poor man ! his 

fv. 


THE THREE BELLES. 


329 


life has truty been a great failure, the wealth he so coveted 
bringing him neither happiness nor advancement in any 
way. And now, the result of the war and the Emancipa- 
tion proclamation have reduced them almost to poverty. I 
truly pity her . But, although I like the Doctor very much, 
I cannot refrain from often thinking and saying, 1 The end 
has brought him just what he deserves — disappointment ! 

A few weeks after this, Katie May, on her return from 
church, rushed into her grandmother’s room, exclaiming : 

“ Oh, Grandma, you ought to have been to church to- 
day ! Only think ! there I saw, all standing together, the 
three Rebeccas ! I had an opportunity of getting a good 
look at them, while Jim fixed the harness — some part of 
which, luckily for me, just then was broken. 

“ Grandma, you will go call on your old friends, will you 
not, and take me with you ? I heard they were going to 
remain some days, visiting their relatives.” 

“ Indeed, I truly felt sorry for poor Mrs. Daw, and the 
Doctor too, when I remembered that all these years he has 
been reaping his reward: and to-day I think the measure 
was filled to overflowing, when he stood in the presence of 
those two women — one so perfectly charming, as she came 
forward leaning on her distinguished husband’s arm, and 
greeted her old friends so cordially ! How proud any man 
might well be to call her his wife ! She is decidedly the 
most elegant woman I ever saw. You can readily see her 
gifted mind beaming in every glance of her glorious eyes.” 

“Well, Katie, how does my little favorite, the beautiful 
Rebecca, look ? ” asked her grandma. 

“ As peaceful and happy as possible. What must she 
have been in her girlhood ? I have been continually think- 
ing since I saw her ; for now, although nearly forty years 
old, she is far more, beautiful than any girl I ever saw ! Ah, 
Grandma, there is not a shadow of a regret for the past in 


330 


THE THREE BELLES 


either of their bosoms, I know ; and the Doctor knew and 
felt it too.” 

“ Yes, my child, I think poor Dr. Daw has found that 
riches taketh unto themselves wings, and flee : while the 
wealth of the mind is much more reliable, and the treasure 
of a pure loving heart endureth for ever.” 


DAYS OF TRIAL. 


BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 


Things deemed unlikely, e’en impossible, 

Experience often shows us to be true. — S hakespbabb. 

During the summer of 1865, 1 was en route to make my 
accustomed visit North. When we arrived in Baltimore, 
our car was entered by quite a large and rather merry wed- 
ding party. 

Very readily I picked out the bride. Why ? Because 
she was the youngest, prettiest, yes, and saddest looking of 
the three girls near me — sad, I thought quite naturally, at 
leaving the gentle, sweet-looking lady who held her hand. I 
knew she was her mother. There were two young gentle- 
men, but which of them was the happy one I could not, to 
save me, decide. “ I shall find out,” I said, u when the 
train leaves and the good-byes are given.” 

Another member of the party I must mention. A beau- 
tiful, bright-eyed little boy of about three years hung around 
the bride. Frequently, during the half hour they lingered 
in the car, she would stoop and press her lips to his, and pat 
his curly head. u Her baby brother,” I thought. 

Last, but by no means the least important in my eye, 
was the finest looking old gentleman I ever saw. Sixty 
years of age I think he might have been. Proudly erect, 
very dignified, yet as gentle-mannered as a woman. -I must 
own tp a great admiration for handsome elderly men, and 
this one was just my beau ideal of the nobleman of olden 

(331) 


332 


DATS OF TRIAL. 


times. He must be her father,” I said to myself, when the 
shrill whistle announced the moment for parting near. 

The bride was clasped in her mother’s arms ; the young 
friends were crowding around for the last kiss, and then my 
ears were surprised by these words : “ Good-bye, my darl- 

ing boy ; be very good, and mamma will bring you some- 
thing pretty, and will soon be home again.” And the child 
was clasped to the bosom of her I had thought his sister. 
His mother ! Scarcely possible. How can that be ? I 
wondered. Then the old gentleman caught up the little 
child, and kissing him, said: 

“Be a little man, Harry : do not worry for mamma, and” 
— here there was a slight hesitancy — “ papa will find some- 
thing to bring you too.” 

At the concluding part of this remark, the beautiful face 
of the bride was crimsoned for a second, and then became 
very pale. I fancied a tear gathering in her blue eye. An- 
other whistle, the friends hurried out, leaving the bride, and 
— which ? her father or husband ? I was mystified truly. 
They occupied the seat just in front of me — the handsome 
old gentleman and the beautiful girl. 

How should I manage to satisfy my curiosity ? A bright 
thought entered my mind. 

At one of the way stations, many of the gentlemen were 
going out for a cup of coffee or some refreshments. Among 
them went the one before me. Leaning over, I touched the 
arm of the young girl, and said: 

“ I have the morning papers ; perhaps you would like to 
see them, or possibly j r our father.” 

“ My husband — he is,” she said ; and another flush crim- 
soned her cheeks. 

I had been successful — gained the knowledge I desired so 
much. 

u Is there anything of much interest ? ” she asked. 


DAYS OF TRIAL. 


338 


“ Not much except the steamer ‘ Dawn ’ has just arrived, 
bringing in some of the passengers from the ship 1 Onward/ 
which has been missing for four years nearly. It seems this 
vessel was wrecked off the coast of Borneo, and most of those 
on board saved, some few only dying from the exposure and 
suffering. Here is a list of those returned/’ I answered, and 
handed her over the paper pointing at the same time to the 
names. 

She grasped the paper. Her breath came quick and short, 
showing great agitation. She glanced over a few names, 
and then turning deathly pale, gasped: 

“ God help me!” p 

The paper fell from her handsj/ I thought her about 
fainting, and quickly handed her my sal ammonia. With a 
powerful effort, she obtained a little composure, and thank- 
ing me, said in a tremulous voice : 

“ I — found the name of a friend — ” She stopped short, 
and pressing her hands to her breast, seemed again terribly 
agitated. 

Just then her husband returned, bringing two cups of 
really delicious coffee. 

He noticed her paleness, and anxiously inquired the 
cause. 

She murmured something about “tired and faint” and 
taking one of the cups from his hand, hastily drank the con- 
tents. The other one he politely insisted I should take. 

We were on the night train, and pretty soon the passen- 
gers began to show unmistakable signs of sleepiness. The 
old gentleman, passing his arms around his wife, drew her 
-head down on his broad breast, and having made her as 
comfortable as possible, was himself soon lost in slumber. 

I feel quite sure sleep never visited her eyes that night. 
I could plainly see the convulsive heaving of her bosom, 
hear the half-drawn sighs, and once or twice a half-sup- 


834 


DAYS OF TRIAL. 


pressed groan escaped her pale lips. She was evidently 
struggling with some great sorrow. The last I saw of them 
was on the boat crossing the ferry to New York. 

Numberless were my surmises concerning those two who 
had interested me so deeply — all in vain, I thought, for I 
shall never know the truth, or be any wiser than now. 

Years passed on until last summer, I was spending a few 
weeks at a celebrated watering-place. The weather was in- 
tensely hot, and crowds of the residents from the neighbor- 
ing city and towns sought our cool, healthy resort by the 
seaside. Among the new r -comers who were promenading 
the long gallery, was one whose face was strangely familiar. 
But for some time I could not recall where or when I had 
seen it before. 

At last all was clear. ’Twas the beautiful girl — the wife 
of the old gentleman, my traveling companions of three 
years before. 

She had changed very much, although still very beauti- 
tiful — looked many years older. She still bore the look 
of sadness. Yet with this there was an expression of 
peace and content. 

She was leaning on the arm of a fine-looking young man 
and holding her hand was a handsome boy of about six 
years, whom I immediately recognized as the little one who 
had clung so closely to his mother’s side years before. 

“ Where was the old gentleman, her husband ? And 
what was this one to her ? I wondered. 

That evening at the tea-table, I was seated quite near 
them. I 'could not keep my eyes off of her. At length, 
glancing down the table, she met my earnest gaze. In- 
tently for a moment she looked at me. Then a smile of 
recognition passed over her face. And as I arose to leave 
the room, she spoke quickly to her companion. She left 
her seat, and advanced to meet me. Extending her hand, 
she said : 


DAYS OF TRIAL. 


335 


" 1 am so glad to meet you again. I have thought of 
you often. You were very kind to me during those hours 
of terrible suffering. Tell me your name ; I want to in- 
troduce you to my husband — my boy’s father.” 

I told her my name. She said, “ Here, Arthur,” to the 
gentleman who was now approaching where we stood. He 
came forward, and she presented Mr. Lester, saying : 

“ This is the lady I have told you of, Arthur ; she who 
gave me the first news of your safety.” 

The next morning after breakfast she came forward, and 
said : 

“ Come to my room ; I want to talk with you. Arthur is 
going out with Harry, and we shall have an hour or two to 
ourselves.” 

I gladly acquiesced. When we were seated, she said : 

u Three years ago you saw me suffering the greatest an- 
guish I have ever known. I have had much to bear since, 
but that night’s agony never can be equalled again. I 
am . going to tell you all about it, for I know well how deeply 
you were interested in me then and are still. 

“ My father was a government clerk ; I his only child. 
We lived comfortably, but up to every cent of his income — 
our only dependence. Papa had a very dear friend, Gen- 
eral . He was an old bachelor, high in position and 

very wealthy. When I was eighteen, mamma came to me 

one day and said that General had asked papa to give 

me to him — he wished to make me his wife. I was always 
very fond of papa’s friend, but never dreamed of such a 
thing as his loving me other than as the daughter of his 
old schoolmate. Mamma spoke of what advantages such a 
marriage would give me, and added, papa would be pleased 
if I could be happy with the General. But they neither of 
them tried to induce me to act in opposition to the dictate 
of my own heart. 


336 


DAYS OF TRIAL. 


“ I could not for a moment think of such a union. My 
heart was already out of my own keeping. I had met and 
become very much in love with a young lieutenant in the 
volunteer service. 

“ Papa was very much opposed to this suitor — not on ac- 
count of any personal difficulty ; but he said that we should 
at least wait until the war was over, for a soldier’s fate was 
far too uncertain. Oh ! if I had only listened and obeyed 
his will, I should neither have suffered so terribly myself, 
nor caused others so much sorrow. Four- years before you 
met me, I eloped and married my present husband. Dear 
kind papa forgave and received me back to heart and home. 
A few months more and Arthur was badly wounded, and 
after lingering in the hospital some months was discharged 
— his health so impaired, his constitution broken down so 
completely as to render him totally unfit for almost every 
kind of business. His physicians recommended a sea 
voyage. He succeeded in getting a position on a vessel 
bound for China. A few weeks after the birth of Harry he 
sailed. 1 was dreadfully grieved at this parting ; but this 
was only the beginning of my sorrows. 

“ Two months after, papa died suddenly, leaving us al- 
most destitute — onty Arthur’s pension and very small in- 
come which he was then receiving. Before another year 
had passed, there came the terrible news of the loss of the 
ship in which my husband had sailed. A home-bound 
vessel had seen and recognized the wreck. All the passen- 
gers were believed lost. Now real poverty was actually be- 
fore us. Through our true friend the General, I obtained 
a position under the Government, and continued for over 
two years, my health suffering severely from the constant 
confinement to my duties. Three years from the time of 
Arthur’s departure, the General came to me, and said : 

“ ‘ My dear child, 1 see you feel that you are slowly, but 


DAYS OF TRIAL. 


33T 


surely dying from this confinement at your work. Your 
boy will soon be an orphan indeed, if you do not get relief. 

I would, oh so gladly ! take you under my own care ; but * 
the hard, cruel world would censure unless you give me the 
perfect right. I know your heart is with the dead; but 
come to me, Annie, and I do not fear but in time you will 
return a little of the great love I give you.” 

" I felt the truth of all he said. I saw my mother too 
suffering for almost the necessaries of life. I knew how 
much this union would bring to comfort her. I yielded — 
and the day you first saw me, became his wife. 

u You brought to my mind the great horror of my posi- 
tion that day ! I beheld myself the wife of two living men ! 

God only knows what I suffered. I could not tell the Gen- 
eral then, but bore all alone my agony. 

“ When we arrived in New York, the General found that 
he had left his very valuable cane on the ferry-boat. Plac- 
ing me in the carriage, he hastened back to recover it. He 
left me, strong, hopeful, and happy. When next I beheld 
him he was in the arms of strangers — crushed, dying. 
When I became sufficiently conscious to hear the truth, 
they told me he had recovered his cane, and was just about 
stepping off the boat as she pushed away from the wharf. 

He jumped, fell in the water, at the same time receiving a 
terrible blow, the effect from which he was then dying. 

No hopes were offered by any of the physicians. He lived 
only long enough to care and provide for me, then passed 
calmly away. Heaven knows how sincerely I grieved for 
my best friend’s death. But you cannot censure, when 1 
tell you of the burden of horror, grief, and mortification 
which was removed from my mind and heart. 

“ A few days more, and I returned to my mother — to 
meet another great shock. Oh, were my sorrows never to 
cease ? I thought. 


838 


DAYS OF TRIAL. 


“ There I learned th#t Arthur, on arriving in New York, 
had hastened on to his loved ones. Taking up a paper, he 
read the announcement of the marriage of his wife. Wild 
with grief and disappointment, he made his way to my 
home, secured my little Harry, and left for where no one 
knew. How I lived the next year I hardly know. Truly 
widowed and childless, I cared not for life, yet still lived on. 
Fourteen months had rolled by, and no tidings of my boy. 
One day I sat with my head bowed on my clasped hands, 
my heart yearning and aching for my lost love, my darling 
Harry, when I heard a sweet infant voice calling, ‘ Mamma, 
my mamma ! ? 

“ But I had so often before heard the same, both in dreams 
and vain imagining, that I heeded it not. Again louder and 
more distinct the call. 

“ I raised my eyes, and — oh ! joy unspeakable ! — beheld 
my darling standing beside me ; close behind him, Arthur, 
my husband. The next day we were reunited — all the past 
clearly understood and freely forgiven. 

“Now, my friend, you have my sad story, with its 
happy conclusion. Yes, we are very happy. But both have 
suffered too much ever to be again merry or very light- 
hearted. I fully recognized all my sufferings as the fruits 
and reward of my disobedience. Had I obeyed my dear 
father’s will, these sorrows could not have been mine. But 
now I feel that God has forgiven, and is once more blessing 
me with his mercy.” 

Mrs. Lester ceased. I thanked her for her confidence. 
And then began a friendship between us which I trust 
will last as long as life. 

015 i 


THE END. 

























































































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